Respite
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Despite being delirious with fever, Jason insists on accompanying Bruce   on patrol. Before he can get too trippy, he is taken home. Alfred, tired of being ignored, leaves the boy in Bruce's care. Jason's POV Rated M for the lad's use of bad language.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I have been extremely busy at both work and with my social life. Subsequently any updates on my story threads currently running will be delayed by at least a couple of days. This story is somewhat fluff, but has elements of angst and family in it also. Jason is ill and Bruce is forced to look after him. Not conventional setting. Jason is pretty much delirious from fever so anything he says can be interpreted multiple ways. Enjoy.**

**Respite**

I feel lousy. No, wait, that's what Bruce would want me to say…let me put it another way…

I feel like absolute shit. I mean, I've never felt so shit in my entire life. My head is spinning. My sinuses are sown up shut. My whole body feels like it's made out of lead and then packed-out with industrial-grade cement. I should be in bed, asleep. Al said it first. Then Bruce said it. My 'decision' if you can call it that, to yell my head off until I'd convinced both of them I was too crazy to be told 'no' to patrol, was not a smart one. Pretty sure somewhere nearby there's a stupidly-high ledge with a city screaming below it, but it's hard to concentrate. When I get hit in the face, again, I know I should've parked my fever-ridden ass in bed. Ah well, too late for should'ves, Jay-Jay; you're in it for the long haul now. Even though I'm virtually comatose, I still find enough to deal with the two or four guys in front of me, depending on how much I strain my eyes. Their screams of pain do enough to jolt me to a more lucid state of mind and I spot the big guy grappling with what looks like a bear on the far side of the roof we're both apparently standing on.

Thinking is for intellectuals and pansies. Since I'm clearly neither, I charge head-first into the situation, literally. The bear roars with pain as my head-butt to the base of its skull forces it on its knees. Somehow I notice Bruce is still catching his wind from what looks like a frenzied jam attack on his chest and finish the job. The bear gets a heavy foot to the face and I hear a loud crunch in the aftermath. I can't tell if he's out cold; my eyes are streaming. I swing around to look at Bruce.

"Did you steal the Teddy bear's jam?" I ask in a voice so detached and different from usual that I wonder if I spoke at all.

"Where are we, Robin?"

"Teddy bear's picnic, right?"

"We should get you home."

"What about the bear?"

"I'm sure Gordon can handle matters here."

I wake up, I think. I'm sat on the couch in the lounge, my cape wrapped around me like a blanket. I still feel like shit, really hot, uncomfortable, lethargic shit. In front of me, the TV's blaring some crap about the Vietnam War. I try to move my head, but find it won't go anywhere I tell it to. It's resting on something; my cheek feels sore. It feels hard, like bone or something.

"Head hurts." I say to no-one in particular, now amazed at how whiny and pathetic I sound. Suddenly whatever my head's resting on shifts and I hit something soft instead. I hear a heartbeat and have a mini-freak-out. Bruce is touching me. I can feel his massive hand pressing against my forehead.

"You do seem a little warmer than earlier." I hear the man remark before the hand disappears briefly. When the cold touches my head and water runs down my face, I want to get away. I can't physically find the strength or energy to move though. So I endure the cold. After a while, it feels nice. The big guy's heartbeat is rhythmic and soothing. I kind of relax. I don't think I should, but I do.

"Am I dying?" I ask sometime later. My eyes aren't staying open anymore. Bruce's hand ruffles my hair.

"No, just ill."

"Do I have pneumonia?"

"No, just a fever. You would know if you had pneumonia."

"Why aren't I dying in bed?"

"You refused to be moved."

"Why?"

"Because you're a bad-tempered, resentful teenage brat."

"Yeah, sounds like me. So why are you here with me now?"

"Alfred is tired of playing nursemaid for the both of us."

"He was pissed at you for taking me, wasn't he?"

"Yes. Go to sleep."

Short, to the point, but sweet? Not our conversations. It's like everyone in this house went on sugar-strike; there's no sweetness in this place. But his hand is still in my hair, stroking it. I don't want him touching me like this, but…it feels nice. My mom used to do this kind of stuff with me when I was ill. I feel like I should apologize to the big guy for being a total asshole.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…" I begin, ruining any sincerity I could possibly generate for what is to follow. "I've been such a pain in the ass lately; Bruce thinks I'm not worth the effort. Al wishes I was dead…"

"Try counting sheep, quietly in your head, Jay-Jay. Apologies are unnecessary." I really don't think I could count past five at the moment, so I ignore the advice.

"You know how many guys I slept with on the streets?" I ask, not even waiting for Bruce to voice his disgust before answering, "Seven. Crazy, right? I was so hungry back then…would've done anything for a cheeseburger; even swallow some guy's special sauce…"

"No more, Jason, please." The big man interrupts in a tired voice, the kind that says I've been keeping him up for hours now. I don't even know where I'm going with this or what it's supposed to achieve, but I carry on pushing.

"I've never felt more alone than on my knees in a public bathroom, in the dead of winter, letting myself get raped for a hand-out. I think I was barely twelve…" I stop when I realize Bruce is pulling me closer to him instead of further away; am I really that important to him?

"You are not alone anymore, Jason." He tells me. I feel his arm coiling round my shoulder and across my chest. I don't think I've let him get this close to me ever. I'm starting to feel really vulnerable, like I need to get away before all my defences cave and I start telling him actual private things. But I'm not going anywhere, so I semi-cave.

"Would you hug me if I got really graphic about it all?"

"No. Just tell me that's what you want and I'll do it. You don't need to swap horrible stories for my affections." He says it like it's obvious. If I had his affections all along I wouldn't be such a head-strong nut-case with a ridiculously short temper. He's never been anything but a critic to me during my time as Robin. He was never a friend. He was certainly never a father or even a father-figure, just the ominous disapprover of what seems like my entire existence; he looks at me in a way that says _I wish you had never been born_. Or maybe it's the fever making me crazy…it's hard to tell anymore. Regardless, I'm still talking.

"Nothing's free, Bruce; not even love." Wow, a Jason Todd truism. Should I be proud of articulating such an amazing philosophical idea or just annoyed it sounded so pedantic? I hear Bruce sigh.

"I used to believe that too." Oh yeah, like he had the same idea I did, only years before I was born…convenient. Maybe he's trying to pander to me here. Am I really that paranoid about him?

"Yeah? When did you become like everybody else then?"

"When I adopted Dick." Golden boy. That's all I ever hear these days: _I wish you were more like your predecessor. I wish you were more like Dick. Dick was far more proficient at this than you…_Just go screw him if you freaking love the perfect, little acrobat. I bet he's begging for some loving from his big, strong bat. I should really go to sleep before I say something as lewd or irreprehensible as the images currently floating round my head. But my mouth opens yet again.

"So, do you love me then?" I say it so casually I actually think he might believe I meant to ask something else entirely. His hand is still stroking my hair. His arm is still wrapped round me. My head is still on his chest; nothing I've said tonight has thrown him off-balance at all. I wonder if he's taking me seriously right now. I know I'm not.

"What do you want me to say, Jason?" I bury half-my-face in his chest, essentially snuggling up to him. God, I hate myself right now. He's gonna remember this moment for years, especially with the brilliant response I manage to give him in a coquettish tone of voice of all things.

"I'm ill. Tell me the truth. Love me or not?"

"I think you should go to bed now." He shifts his weight in order to get up, but I shift mine, moving myself until I'm sat in his lap. I open my eyes and put a hand on either one of his shoulders. The game's over. I have to know where I stand with this mountain of stone I call Bruce. I have to know right now.

"Do you fucking love me, Bruce? Yes or no?" I sound like I'm back in the room, that I'm myself again. It's a trick of course, just the last semblance of strength I have left to make him see I'm serious. I concentrate hard to focus my eyes on his face. He looks really, really uncomfortable with the situation; I guess he really doesn't have fifteen-year-old boys in his lap all that often. He nods his head at me.

"Yes. I love you, Jason." He's not just trying to get rid of me. He's not just saying what he thinks I want to hear; he actually loves me. Batman loves me, gotta be a good sign. I don't smile. Neither of us does; I feel as awkward as he looks. I nod my head a couple of times to show him I understand.

"Good. Now I need to sleep." And, just like that, I pass-out.

Goodnight everybody.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Jason's life has been rough. At least, that is the way I have always seen it. Subsequently, selling his body on the streets for a warm bed to sleep in sounds about right for my interpretation of rough. Following on from _Respite_, Jason has a very lucid dream about his past, followed by an open conversation with Alfred. Depending on response to this, I may add further installments. Enjoy**

**Burnt**

I'm on my knees in some decrepit bathroom. A faceless shadow in front of me demands satisfaction. I'm cold and hungry and desperate; I need money. So I do what's expected of me, and force it into my mouth. It nearly chokes me, but I just resist the urge to gag. And I go on for minutes, long, slow, agonising minutes, wondering if it'll ever end. My knees hurt from digging into the scum-covered tile on the floor and my back is sore from constantly leaning back and forth. I'm tired and want to sleep, really badly. So, as soon as lukewarm, bitter fluid fills my mouth, and I manage to swallow it with vomiting, I pop the question:

"Wanna take this back to a motel room?"

The shadow does, putting a big hand on my shoulder and steering me out into the cold, night air. I don't want to do this, but the streets are so freaking cold at the moment. I think if I went to sleep outside, I wouldn't wake up again. The guy at the front desk knows what's going to happen when he hands over the room key, but he won't call the cops; the shadow pays extra not to be disturbed. It's amazing what we'll all do for a little money. The room's in the corner of the building, top floor, away from nearly everybody else in the place; I don't want people to hear me scream.

When we get inside the door, the place is as decrepit as the subway bathroom. The carpet's balding and has a few weird stains that could be blood or shit. The wallpaper is peeling at the corners, some horrible floral pattern from a few decades back. The light bar above us buzzes incessantly, giving me a slight headache. The TV's one of those coin-operated jobs and will definitely only have ABC and the porn channels working. But I don't care about any of this stuff; because it's warm in here and the bed has a proper mattress to sleep on. The shadow beckons me over to the bed and I go, knowing exactly what I'm about to endure.

It goes on for hours.

I have to bite down as hard as I can on the pillow to shut myself up. Tears sting my eyes as the shadow's rhythm never wavers, big hands running wild over my naked, sweat-soaked body. I feel nothing except intense, prolonged pain as the shadow fucks away whatever innocence I have left to take. I know I'm bleeding too; I can feel it sliding down the back of my leg, the warmth lost in more sweat. The shadow presses their torso on my back and coils steel arms round my stomach as the strokes finally pick up speed. I try to brace myself, but the weight on my back and the strain on my arms mean I collapse under all the pressure. I shiver violently when the shadow shoots up inside me, signalling the end of things. I lie limp on the damp, blood-spattered mattress, trying to get my breathing under control. The shadow, long since recovered from their exertions, has already dressed. They throw a handful of crumpled twenties beside me, give meagre thanks and tell me to keep the room. Then the shadow leaves and I am alone.

I count the money immediately. Sixty dollars and twenty-three cents. My innocence is for sale for sixty dollars and twenty-three cents. It's more than I got off the last shadow, almost twenty bucks more; maybe I'm getting better at this. I feel dirty, but not sorry for myself. In Gotham city, the price of survival is high, especially for an orphaned, twelve-year-old kid. Do I really think for the sake of my dignity I'm going to let myself croak in a rat-infested alleyway, cowering under a few layers of piss-soaked cardboard? Fuck dignity, I want to live. Even though I've been kept awake for almost twenty-four hours, I manage to roll off the bed.

The burning sensation is still there as I hobble like a cripple to the bathroom. The sweat's dried and I feel cold again. Everything below my waist hurts like hell, but I have to shower. The water coming out the showerhead is brown for a few moments before finally turning clear. I try not to think about how many prostitutes and crack-heads have overdosed in this tub I'm standing in. I wash myself using the soap I bought at the Seven-Eleven, gritting my teeth when I reach behind. The sting is constant, finding harmony with the burning to make even standing up as close to unbearable as it can manage. The blood and juices are gone soon enough, even if the stinging and burn go on tormenting me long after I leave the shower. I feel no better than before, but the smell is at least less obvious.

I don't bother drying myself. I just flip the sheets over, pull my jacket over my shoulders and close my eyes. Sleep comes so easily it's almost criminal.

"_Master Jason? Master Jason, are you alright?"_

I open my eyes and find Al looming over me. I put my hand in front of my face to block him out.

"Don't come any closer, I'm naked." I tell him, turning over and pulling the sheets up over my head. I still feel like shit.

"Yes, I am more than familiar with your sleeping habits, young man. I have only come to check-up on you and to give you the first round of medication." Al replies in that professional manner I like so much. I roll onto my back again and pull the sheets down to my shoulders. The old man looks weirdly patient with me this morning.

"So, you've forgiven him then?" I ask taking the assortment of colourful pills from his perfectly manicured hand. I don't swallow them, just hold them. Al watches me intently.

"Take your medicine, Sir. Here is a tumbler of water." He hands me the glass from the tray on my bedside table. I do as he says and swallow the stupid things. He extends a hand out to receive the glass. I stare at him before leaning over to my left and placing the glass back on the tray myself. Al inclines his head. "Thank you. Now, how are you feeling this morning?"

"Like I want a hug." I offer sarcastically, not particularly wanting to be cooperative today. Al adopts a tired expression; guess I need some new tricks. I remember last night and talking to Bruce in snatches. He wasn't very interested in my career as a rent-boy, but maybe the old man will be different. "I had a dream about the shadows." I say. Al looks intrigued, but wary; I've played with him too many times to be totally trustworthy.

"And what are the shadows, Sir?" He inquires drawing closer to me.

"They're what I call the guys I slept with on the streets. You know, for money." Al frowns, but does not move away. He perches himself like a hawk on the edge of my bed.

"And what happens in these dreams?"

"Everything just happens again. The blowjob, the motel room, the burning sensation afterwards…really lucid memories." My voice is calm and relaxed. The old man is not surprised by what I'm telling him at all; he's always suspected I suffered as much. He nods in understanding.

"And how do you feel when you wake up?"

"I don't feel anything at all."

"Not upset, angry or scared?" I shake my head in reply. "You just feel…"

"Empty." As soon as I finish speaking, Al's hand is on my cheek. He can be so comforting when he chooses. His thumb strokes my skin gently.

"I am sorry for whatever has befallen you. I know such a statement means little coming from—"

"It means something coming from you, Al, honest." The old man smiles at me, his hand still on my face. I smile too. "See? I'm not such a bad kid." Al takes his hand away.

"There is no such thing as a bad child, only bad parenting or a lack of the practice altogether. You are just feeling neglected, yes?" I force myself to sit up in bed. Al's right on the money. Bruce telling me he loved me didn't really change things in my head. I still feel like an outsider.

"Go on." I say, drawing my knees up to my chest and leaning my elbows on them. Al pulls a generous amount of sheets towards me and continues. "Both Master Bruce and I are not used to teenage rebellion. Master Dick was not a typical teenager in his attitude and Master Bruce's childhood obsession with obtaining revenge left little scope for mood swings or defiance. His…decision to bring you into this world of ours, was done out of pity. Now, he wants to try and 'fix' you in the same way he repairs machinery or broken dreams, with a logical approach. I did not think it a wise venture to attempt to control you. My advice was to respect and understand your attitude to life. He…ignored my suggestion and went with a harsh, disciplinary approach."

"So, he screwed me up?" I say bluntly. Al regards me wistfully.

"Is that how you feel?"

"I just want to belong, Al. I'm Robin; I'm supposed to feel at home next to Batman, but I feel like a wannabe. I feel like he sees me as a wannabe, not the real deal." Suddenly, Al and I are having the most open conversation I've ever had in this house. It's amazing to be able to talk with someone about my feelings like this, and not be judged. Bruce always judges me. He voiced his disappointments so much; I put Al in the same boat as him. The old man's never said a bad word about me to my face; he didn't deserve to get blown-off by me because of my relationship, if you can call it that anymore, with Bruce.

"You are worthy of the mantle. Despite Master Bruce's reservations about your suitability for this life, Robin's legacy is in good hands with you. You have proven yourself so many times now. I have every faith in you." Al pats my knee. I smile at him.

"You're one in a million, Al. Thanks for being around. If it was just him and me, there wouldn't be a Batman and Robin."

"Perhaps not, but without your presence, there would not be a dawn for Master Bruce and myself…just the darkness."

"Do you get these quotes out of Shakespeare?"

"Only when the Baud is appropriate, young sir."

"I feel like shit, Al, in response to your earlier question." I tell him. The old man places a hand across my forehead briefly.

"Refrain from further expletives, Master Jason, if you please. Your temperature is still elevated, but to a far lesser extent than last night. The antibiotics should lower the fever further and, with any luck, you'll be fine in a couple of days." He informs me before giving up yet another smile. "Now, what would you like for breakfast?" I shrug my shoulders.

"What does the doctor recommend?"

"Something cold."

"Breakfast smoothie?"

"Of the blueberry variety, Sir?"

"Yes, please."

"Very good, Sir." Al gets up and exits the room. I lie back down, throw the sheets over my head and go back to sleep. At least someone in this place is on my side.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Story is a little rough around certain edges. Still good enough quality for submission. Jason goes through hell in the gym. Dick appears to voice his concerns. Jason tells him how it is. Enjoy.**

**Work**

I won't lie; I'm feeling so much better. It's only been three days since I got ill, but Al's potions are doing the trick. That's why I skipped the mid-morning lie-in and went in the gym. I used to be scrawny, like really badly skinny. A diet of cheeseburgers and pop-tarts didn't help much, but cheap, quality food is hard to come by when you live on the streets. Nowadays, I've got the body of an Olympic-level gymnast, only more conditioned. It looks great of course and lets me do things most people would consider physically impossible, but is a total bitch to maintain. Not only do I have to train six-times-a-week, but my diet has to be stricter than my training regime otherwise I lose balance of my fitness attributes. I have to admit, when Bruce first started training me, I thought I'd never make it to the end, let alone be capable of maintaining his standard once I'd achieved it. It's a freaking struggle to eat the right blend of nutrients, protein and carbs in the right amounts every day, but I manage. Al has to help me, but I manage. It's only ten in the morning and I've already eaten twice: breakfast and then my pre-workout meal. With what I'm about to put myself through, I need all the calories I can get.

For the first couple of years here, I followed Bruce's exercise routines. That man is insane. What he puts himself through is freakish even by our ridiculous standards. His swimming routine involves chains and padlocks…and blindfolds. His strength program has bench-presses in excess of seven-hundred pounds…for repetitions. So, after trying to adapt them for my physical capabilities and failing, I made up my own routines to follow. They probably hurt just as much as his, but don't involve the risk of death with every session. After stripping off my hooded jacket, I begin the warm-up.

Let me be clear: gymnastics is for girls. Handstands, backflips, cartwheels and the splits are designed to make girls look really hot. No question it works; I see female gymnasts on TV going through a routine and I have to go to the bathroom after a few minutes. Girls in leotards bending over backwards turn me on. They make it look so easy to do too, like anybody could do it. Of course, the reality's different and especially for guys. When girls do gymnastics they look graceful and elegant; guys look like muscle-bound freaks trying to break their necks with crazy manoeuvres…at least I do. Because I hate gymnastics so much, I always warm-up with it. It's not to punish myself for being a bad-tempered little acrobat or to appease Bruce; it's to make sure I don't get sloppy. If I can't perform these movements perfectly in the gym, the chance of me getting killed in the field because I mistimed a flip goes through the roof. Not really in the mood to die because I couldn't do what my fantasy girls do in my head when I'm alone.

Pommel house is first. Invention is your enemy with things like this; never do gymnastics in your own way, always do exactly as you were taught. So my routine on the horse is ripped straight from the last Olympic gold medal winner's performance on the apparatus. It took almost three years to go through the whole set of movements without fucking up at least once and then another two months to execute a flawless routine consistently; now it's child's play which is lucky for me because I couldn't handle anything more difficult. I do the full routine three times without a single mistake; warm-up done.

Next up, bodyweight exercises. I just do handstand push-ups until my shoulders cramp up, followed by the plank until my abs throw in the towel. Usually it's around the ten minute mark for the abs and six minutes for the push-ups; my record in that timeframe is just under one hundred and ten complete push-ups. Today I manage seventy-eight. I guess I am still a little sick. Then I do box jumps until I think I reach one-hundred-and-fifty reps. if all this sounds crazy, don't worry. It is absolutely insane. Because even after burning my body into the ground for nearly twenty-five minutes, cramming two or three hours worth of physical work into that timeframe, I'm still only halfway through the session. Now we move on to free weights.

Before I hit the iron, I down a double-dose of whey protein and nearly a whole litre of cold water to replace what I've already sweated out. I want to throw-up at this point, really badly, but I force the protein shake down my throat. It stays down as I load up an Olympic barbell with two forty-five-pound plates on either side and focus my mind. There are three lifts I have to perform; the clean and jerk, the snatch and the Jason Todd press. Invention is only the enemy in gymnastics, not this stuff; I love this stuff. I can clean more than twice my bodyweight, but can only press out one-and-a-half times my weight. Plus I can't go crazy or I lose speed and flexibility in order to gain strength. Balance is so important in my fitness levels. The Jason Todd press is basically a bench press, except at the lock-out phase of the movement you have to stand up. It is ridiculously hard to do, even at one-hundred-per cent in terms of energy; right now I'm hovering around fifty-five. I manage all the lifts three times each. On my final sets I improve my records by five pounds on each lift. Now for sprints.

By now, I'm ready to die on my feet. I've been working out for almost forty-five minutes. My stamina and energy levels are into redline areas of human endurance and I feel dizzy. Still, only five more minutes to go. I line up at the start of the twenty-metre shuttle run and prepare to destroy whatever's left to take. After fifty suicides I collapse on the floor, swimming in my own juices. This time I don't lose all control of my bowels and shit myself. That has happened twice. I've also pissed myself four times after a session. Al and Bruce are never impressed with my dedication; they just think I'm disgusting. They would be right. After nearly fifteen minutes of lying motionless on the ground, I manage to force myself onto my elbows. The sweating and what I thought might've been a prelude to a heart attack have finished tormenting me. I'm now freezing and dressed in nothing but a drenched pair of shorts and Lycra vest. Don't ask about the vest; I'm vain okay? Tight things look really good on me.

"Need a hand nutcase?"

I roll onto my stomach to find Dick grinning at me from the far side of the gym.

"How long have you been watching?"

"Since you started punching your own stomach for being weak. You're so funny to watch."

"Fuck you, Golden Boy." I tell him whilst attempting to get to my feet. They aren't playing at the moment, figuring it's far more productive to pretend they belong to a paraplegic rather than me. Dick just grins more. I stop trying to stand up and start crawling with my arms.

"Really? You're going to crawl a hundred metres across the gym to crawl almost four times that distance to get to the shower? Are you sure you don't want a hand, little bird?"

"From big bird, are you kidding?" I say as I make my way past him on route to the door. Dick walks alongside me.

"Not curious why I'm here then?"

"Er…to suck Bruce off?"

"So you're in that kind of mood huh?"

"Yep. Tell me anyway though."

"To check you were okay. Alfie said you'd had like the worst fever he'd ever seen."

"Nah, it was indigestion."

"You really can't do non-lewd humour, can you Jay-Jay?"

"And you can't do humour at all so we're about even."

"Need help yet?"

"Nope." That's just the most unconvincing lie I've told all day; I'm crawling around like I've got Polio and am just too dumb to realize it. Plus, the horrific torture I've just inflicted on myself in the past hour means I'm literally crawling at a snail's pace. At this rate, I'll reach the shower by dinner. It's sort of a relief when Dick stops asking permission and just slings me over his shoulder. He knows I'm stubborn and pretty crazy. I will never ask for his help even if I desperately want it. Golden boy can tell when I need him though. He's not my brother, but I guess he is my friend. "Thanks Dick."

"You're welcome Super-Brat."

When we reach the top of the main staircase, I give walking another try. This time my legs don't dissolve underneath me. They feel twice as heavy as normal and every step is a huge effort, but I begin to walk. Golden Boy is still next to me.

"Have you seen the size of the sweat patch you left on my shoulder?" He asks showing a huge circular stain covering his entire right shoulder and close to half of his torso, "It's like you've been swimming."

"So change your shirt." I tell him with my hand on the bathroom door. Dick still hasn't left yet. "I can shower on my own, Ponytail." I hate the guy's ponytail; I think he looks fucking ridiculous. He's got a weird frown on his face where a stupid smile should be. It's a bad fit for someone like him.

"You sure you're okay? Alfie's a little worried about you." I can't help but sneer at his concern; Golden Boy is only ever concerned about me when Al is fretting over my behaviour. If it's Bruce complaining, he mostly ignores it, chalking it to the big guy's unattainable standards. But if it's Al, Dick drops everything and comes to his aid. If it weren't so sickly, it'd be sweet.

"I'm fine. Al's always worried about me, thinks I'm going down a dark path."

"It's not that Jason. He's worried you're pushing yourself too hard. He thinks your half-marathon last week, the one he said you did in freezing temperatures in nothing but a T-shirt and shorts, caused your fever."

"Maybe, sounds a little far-fetched to me though." Dick rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Be serious. Take it easy on the physical training; you should be able to walk after you finish." I shrug.

"And I can. It just took a while longer than usual."

"You couldn't even stand up for almost thirty minutes, let alone walk." I'm getting a little pissed-off with Circus Boy's preaching and self-effacing bullshit. It's like he's pretending he never did half the crazy stuff I'm doing in training, like he's never worked his ass off to get some recognition from our mutual god. I hope he can see my temper flaring up right now or what I say next might come as a surprise.

"Have you tried to impress _him_ lately?" I snap. Dick says nothing in response. That's good; it's his time to listen now. "I don't just live in that man's shadow; I live in yours too. I'm not the athlete you are, or the moderate intellectual you are, or the showman you are or even the good kid you like to play…I'm Jason Todd, not Dick Grayson. Do you think he gives me any leeway for NOT being you? The answer is a big fat 'no'. So I have to push myself harder than you did, for longer than you did or else he gives me the 'your predecessor applied himself with far greater focus and dedication' speech. All I hear, all I ever fucking hear when I put on that costume is how bad I am next to you, how unrefined I am as Robin. I push myself harder to make him shut up. I want him to be able to say nothing about my lack of dedication. I want him to leave me alone. If I have to kill myself in the gym to do that, if I have to work myself to within an inch of my life to make him see me as your equal, I'll do it. Don't tell me to take it easy, Dick; this Robin doesn't know what the fuck that is." There is a brutal silence. He has nothing to respond with. I consider just opening the door, going in and then slamming it in his face. But I think there's one other thing I want to make clear to Golden Boy. I open the door.

"Tell Al…thanks for caring. Man's got a heart of gold." And then I shut it in his face.

Shower time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Urchin**

Combat, a guy once said, is a game of inches. Right now, my fist is about three inches inside some thug's grill, breaking eight of his front teeth. So I guess that guy was right. I drop my target without any further trouble and wait for the big man to finish off his man too. My first night back on the job after my boiled kettle impression is a slow one. If my fever slowed me down some, I haven't been able to notice; every guy we face is as wooden and stiff as a dead tree and even less interesting. Bruce takes his guy out with a nerve pinch, something I can't help but roll my eyes at; the big guy is all about the fancy touches. I wait until I'm sure he's finished before speaking.

"Next move, Boss?" Instead of staring off into space to consider what to do next, Bruce stares at me.

"Home."

"Should I drive?"

"Very funny."

The drive back is conducted in the normal otherworldly silence we're both used to. Tonight was boring, but probably productive from a tactical standpoint. Judging from which rackets we closed down, the big guy is trying to cause enough damage to incite a little more competition between the gangs in Gotham and make them take bigger risks to get a profit. It's smart, for sure, but so damn tedious; this might take weeks. I can't help but sigh out loud when I consider this, but the boss is beyond reacting to it. He doesn't care how I feel, just so long as I do as I'm told. It's always been that way with us.

While we're still on the way back to the cave, I take the opportunity to take off my left glove and study my hand. I knocked out a total of twenty-six individual teeth with my left hand tonight. It looks like the Kevlar plating on the knuckles held up nicely to the abuse; my hand looks pristine. I admire it for a few more minutes before slipping my glove back on. I guess tonight wasn't a total waste of time.

Al greets us on arrival without any sense of urgency. Why would he? It would've taken a miracle for us to get hurt tonight, an underworld miracle. The man offers us tea and coffee on a tray, something I think he only does to remind us he's actually supposed to be a butler, not a nanny. I don't like either option, but Bruce takes some black coffee to the armoury with him. That leaves Al and me alone together.

"How was tonight's patrol, Master Jason?" He asks me in that polite manner of his. I shrug whilst removing my mask.

"How many ways are there to say 'boring', Al?" He smiles at me.

"I see you are fully healed from your earlier illness and once again back to your charming self." Al's entitled to do 'wit' towards me. When he fires sarcastic remarks at me, I don't mind. The guy's actually funny and, with all the grief Bruce and me give him, he deserves to poke fun at us. So I smile back at him.

"Keep your chin up, Al. It's only a matter of time before I land back in bed again. There are good odds on a concussion if you want to place a bet." Al adopts a reluctant expression.

"I was rather thinking cracked ribs myself, Sir." I nod in agreement.

"That's a strong possibility too." Al places the tray down and draws within touching distance of me. I can see he's about to say something serious just from the way he moves in. He puts a hand on my shoulder and nods.

"I am glad to see you are feeling better. I've got a smoothie waiting for you in the kitchen if you would like it." Al, what a guy. I really do just want him to be my grandfather some days. The man spoils me in a way Bruce will never be able to. The big guy can buy me anything in the world, but he can't make me a smoothie or listen to me talk about my past without being judgemental. He doesn't look after me when I'm sick or speak to me even when I don't deserve conversation. Al spoils me in a way that makes me feel good about myself, like I'm not a bad kid. He makes me feel like I'm just a little bit wilder than most guys my age, a little bit more restless. He doesn't lecture me or ground me or ban me from the cave when I do my own thing; he just asks me to be more considerate next time. That's why I love Al. That's why the guy is someone I consider to be my friend. I nod.

"After this stuff finishes here, I'll be right up." Al smiles, patting my shoulder briefly before removing his hand.

"I shall see you shortly." I watch him pick up the tray and begin his ascent up the steps. As I do, Bruce returns from the armoury clad in his dressing gown and slippers. I haven't even gotten round to taking my cape off. The man just got out of a forty-pound suit and into his pyjamas in less than a minute-and-a-half. Impressive stuff. He sips from his mug as he approaches me.

"How do you think tonight went?" He asks me, stopping only a foot away from me. His voice and expression are unreadable; I can't tell if he's mad or not. I shrug.

"We did what we wanted to do. I think it went well." Bruce nods along, taking another sip of his coffee.

"And how do you think you performed?" I roll my eyes at what is always a rhetorical question with him. I give him snide cynicism.

"Why don't you just tell me how I performed?" He takes yet another sip. There's a long uncomfortable pause, usually the precursor to an argument or lecture. Then he speaks.

"You were fine." That is high praise from Bruce. To say I was fine, such a vague and ambiguous term to describe my performance, is to say I did everything to an adequate standard. If I was bad, he would get so much more specific with his vocabulary and begin to intricately turn me inside out. And when I say adequate standard, I mean in his eyes. Since Bruce doesn't like adequacy, it means if I were to have been working with anybody else, my performance would have garnered a high standard of praise. So inside I'm happy with myself.

"That's it?" I check.

"That's it. Goodnight, Jason."

It's an hour later and I'm sat at the breakfast table in the kitchen, drinking blueberry smoothie. I've managed to change from my costume into my PJs and have the added bonus of Al for company. After he forced me to put on my top to prevent further illness, the man has been entertaining me for the past forty minutes with stories from his time in theatre. Since I'm horribly hard to impress and quite possibly the worst audience member in the world, Al's doing pretty well to hold my interest. It helps that he's an interesting guy and that, once again, his stories are funny. At the moment he's halfway through a memorable performance of Shakespeare's Hamlet, in which he played the evil king. I won't lie, some of what he's saying goes straight over my head, a little too highbrow for my tastes, but I get the rest.

Apparently, when Prince Hamlet forced him to swallow the poison from the chalice in the final scene, Al started choking and spat the water into his co-star's face, adlibbing the line 'How doth it taste to you?'. Everyone in the audience broke out into laughter and applause. I just smile. Other highlights were the moment his tights fell down during a dramatic soliloquy and the scene he went to kiss the queen and almost poked her in the eye with his crown. Al describes them as 'the follies of youth', although it's debatable whether thirty-five can be considered 'youthful'. Maybe compared to his current age, which is rumoured you can determine by counting the lines on his forehead, it's young.

"I wish I could act sometimes." I tell him, finishing off my drink.

"For what purpose?"

"Why else? To make money."

"Acting is meant to be a noble profession, meaning that performing is more about spiritual rewards than monetary gain." The guy says it like he's delivering a dramatic speech. He looks at me afterwards, trying to see how I'm going to interpret that. I think I know what's coming next. So I feed him the expected question.

"Is that how you felt?"

"Heavens no; I was only in it for the money." Al says grinning at me. Score one for Jason. I saw that one coming. I still smile though; the man knows how to play me just the right way. If I hadn't been expecting that response, I might have laughed. Maybe.

"This probably sounds dumb, Al, but you're the finest human being I've ever met."

"I fear that would constitute 'overkill', Master Jason. There are far better examples of humanity than myself."

"Yeah, but I don't know those people. I probably don't want to know those people either. I'm saying out of the people I know and all the people I've ever met, you're the only guy I'd consider my friend."

"Are you saying you don't consider Master Bruce your friend?"

"He's not my friend. He's my mentor, my guardian and my biggest critic, but he's not my friend. He probably never will be."

"You are being rather unfair towards…"

"Don't defend him, Al. Don't defend him, don't try to sell him to me as a good guy and sure as hell don't make this conversation into being about him and me. This is all about YOU and me, Al, just you and me. Understand?" Al raises an eyebrow in surprise before nodding. There are things I want to say to this man that I don't want others to hear. Things that are personal and private. It's a rare moment for Jason Todd to lower the drawbridge to the castle, but I'm doing it now and not for long.

"Golden boy told me that you were worried about me when he came a-calling the other day. He said you were worried about my behaviour and my health. You probably think that's no big deal that it's natural when people you care about are ill and you fuss about them. Let me tell you that doesn't happen in my world. My own father didn't give a shit about me when I got sick or acted out; he just smacked me around until I shut up. My mom was too busy dying of cancer to notice. Every guy I slept with on the streets didn't care how badly they hurt me so long as they got what they wanted. Bruce doesn't care about me either so long as I do what he says. This is fact, Al. Okay? This is fact. But you DO give a shit about me and that means more to me than any praise I could ever get from the big guy. You are the only man I have ever known whom I have never once wanted to hurt in some way, that I've wanted to suffer. That makes you special to me. That makes you my friend. I never want to hurt you, Al. I never want anyone else to hurt you. And I will never let anyone else hurt you so long as I'm still breathing. And that's…" I catch myself before the dam waters break and I reveal everything I keep inside. I take a couple of deep breaths and gauge his reaction; he looks plenty stunned enough already. So I dial it back. "And that's all I want to say about that. So now we know where we stand with one another." The old man smiles at me warmly.

"I always suspected you had a heart, Master Jason. It is gratifying to see it being worn on your sleeve at this point, instead of somewhere deep inside you where daylight fears to venture." I can't tell whether he's trying to say Bruce is an emotional hermit or I'm a nasty, little bastard but I resist the urge to roll my eyes and shrug instead.

"I'm not allergic to being nice, Al. It's just a damn hard job to do when you keep the company I do. Scum don't respond to heart-to-heart talks all that well if I'm honest. They like fist to face negotiation better. "

"Well, I hope we don't have to go down that particular route, Sir."

"So long as you don't say I look adorable in tights or try to grab my ass, we'll be cool." I tell him with a grin. He returns it.

"I will bear that in mind."

"Right, well, I gotta get some sleep before Bruce goes to bed or else it'll already be time to get up for breakfast." I announce getting to my feet.

"Shall I tuck you in, Sir?" Al inquires to show he can still carry the banter even this late into the conversation. I sigh.

"We're friends, Al, just friends. Don't make this weird." I say rounding the table. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. "Night, Al, love you." I add before walking off.

That's two for Jason in one night. Good work, Jay-Jay.


	5. Chapter 5

**Straws**

"Jason?"

I manage to peel my head off the pillow and force my eyes to open. I got so wasted last night; gate-crashing raging high school parties is so worth the trouble. Right now I'm paying for it. The taste of vodka and cigarettes is thick on my tongue and my head feels like there's a strobe light pulsing behind my eyes, but it was an awesome night. I'm still hammered; my eyes are struggling to focus on the guy I assume is Al standing at the foot of my bed.

"Yeah?" I manage to say; even a syllable threatens to dissolve into unintelligible mush.

"Where were you last night?" Okay, that's NOT Al speaking. Great, Bruce is about to rip me apart for being a teenager. I let my face mash itself back into the pillow before answering.

"Nowhere special." It almost sounds like somebody trying to play a tape backwards when I speak, it's that garbled. I think he could just make it out though. I need some water.

"Alfred says he caught you coming back into the house after three in the morning." Al gave me up? Ah, he was only doing his job; Bruce wouldn't even have noticed if the old mother hen hadn't told him. I should be sort of grateful. Jeez, I REALLY need some water. How much did I drink?

"So? It's the weekend." I point out, deciding to try and prop myself up on one elbow. "Am I still dressed?" I make a big effort to keep my eyes open and then a frankly herculean effort to focus them on the big guy. He shakes his head.

"No. Please cover yourself up." I clumsily pull the duvet over my crotch and rub my face a few times. I'm going to have to go get some water in a second or I will die. Okay, Jay-Jay, let's see if we can't salvage the situation with some tactful nous…

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I feel like shit, I probably look worse and I promise I'll tell you the next time I plan to torch the majority of my brain cells. Okay?" This pretty eloquent speech cum apology should help mellow out the incoming storm clouds and, given how stupidly drunk I am, I did very well to articulate anything in the first place; I was expecting the next thing out of my mouth to be vomit. Bruce frowns, sighs and then rolls his eyes in that order. I think he's actually easing up on me a bit.

"I just don't understand why you do this. Your conduct on patrol is much improved, your general attitude and bearing around the house is highly promising again and yet, you spoil it by acting like this." He sounds disappointed. This is still better than pissed; I can't argue with him right now, much less shout. I go to sit up and immediately lose my balance. Bruce looks away in disgust. Really? I fall over once and he's disgusted? Get a grip, rich boy.

"Hey, don't treat me like that. I don't deserve to be treated like some kind of wino who's fallen off the bandwagon for the umpteenth time. I'm a kid for Christ's sake; we do stupid stuff like this all the time. It's part of being young. Plus, did you forget the part where I let men _rape_ me in motels for food? Most kids in my position WOULD be alcoholic no-hopers, so don't burn me for drinking once in a while." He knows I'm right. Hell, I know I'm right. He won't admit it though, definitely not his style, but hopefully the chances of this turning into something ugly have been put to bed. I admit that sometimes I play the haunted past card a little too much, but this time I think I'm justified. There's a potentially awkward silence developing here. So I break it as politely as I can. "Can I get some water please, Bruce? I'm kinda thirsty." He stares at me for a while. Then he gestures to my bedside table. When I glance over, I see there's already a tumbler of water waiting for me. That's an unusually kind thing for the big man to do; tee-totallers DON'T normally pity the drunk. I manage a smile in his direction. He just inclines his head.

Holy shit this water tastes like Heaven. I chug the whole thing in one go. God I feel born again. "Thanks, big man." I say putting the glass back on the table top, "So, you gonna ground me or give me extra chores or what? Stop me being Robin?" Bruce shakes his head. This is a weird development. The big guy DOESN'T want to burn me for being a 'wild' and 'self-destructive rebel'? Does he just not care anymore?

"You've been good for the past few months. And this time I didn't have to pick you up from jail. So I'll let this one slide. They'll be no punishment on this occasion, son." Wow. This is the probably the coolest attitude he's had to me being myself in our whole relationship. Am I actually starting to win him over? Does he see Jason Todd instead of Golden Boy in this bed? Maybe he finally understands that I'm not a puppet or someone he can force to conform to his ideals. Or maybe it's just because this time I didn't beat the crap out of six people in a drunken brawl outside a strip club. No bruises on my knuckles THIS time. Any way you slice it though, score one for Jason Todd making Batman see he's a person, not a replacement.

"I think I love you, right now." I offer with a lop-sided grin. Bruce narrows his eyes and manages a thin smile.

"DON'T let this happen again, Jason. Please just be more considerate in future." Oh my God. That was an Al tagline if I ever heard one: _be more considerate in future_. Al's been at him this morning. Mr Pennyworth has probably talked Bruce down from his high horse and got him to look outside his black and white view of the world. Al would never openly admit it, but he went to bat for me and, considering the guy he was taking on, that's damn impressive persuasion on my behalf. I owe that man a great deal, a _great_ deal. Bruce is waiting for me to give him a reply.

"What did he say to make you act like this? Honestly, it must've been good." This time I manage to sit up without falling down. The big man rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Alfred pointed out that, although I never got involved in drink-related escapades during my youth, I still managed to accomplish some fairly idiotic things that are on par with yours." This is interesting. Bruce's past is all grim and full of predictable B revenge movie plot twists; there's very little room for comedy or light-hearted moments so I want to hear about them. I mean, my past is pretty much a badly-written lifetime movie too; something you couldn't pay me to watch, but it doesn't do funny. I clap my hands before rubbing them together.

"Come on then, let's hear 'em. Confess your sins and be clean in the eyes of the lord." Jeez, I'm up and running in record time this morning; Bruce not being a sanctimonious asshole to me is as good a hangover cure as I've ever had.

"I think I've been accommodating enough for one day, Jason. Perhaps another time." I shrug my shoulders and lie back down on the mattress. Freebies are good enough for me; the story would've just been a bonus. So I'm going back to sleep for the next four hours.

"You should definitely be this guy more often, Bruce; I could live with him." I offer, already drifting back to unconsciousness. I'm tired enough to really want this sleep. I miss the big man's response but do feel his hand make brief contact with my hair in leaving the room. So far this morning, everything's coming up Jason.

I wake up some time around midday. I flirt with the idea of being a lazy bastard and sleeping all day, but think I'm gonna break out in bedsores if I carry on so I drag my ass out of bed. A quick shower followed by brushing my teeth four times and downing another litre of water gets me to leave my room for the outside world. Lucky I'm still drunk or else this would be so much harder. I head downstairs decked out in just my board shorts and go hunting for Al in his normal haunts. It takes about five seconds to find him in the ten acre plot of land we call a back garden, pruning roses.

"Rip Van Winkle awakens. To what do we owe the pleasure?" Al begins without even looking up at me approaching. I shrug my shoulders.

"I'm just a lot more sober." The old guy glances up from the bud he's about to clip and smiles.

"Indeed you are. I must say this is a great improvement on earlier this morning." He comments, snipping the bud off. He's got some green fingers…maybe it's gangrene. I know, not funny, but still sort of hung-over so cut me some slack. Moving on…

"Oh, do go on and embarrass me, Al." I say genially. Al feigns disappointment.

"If only I could, Sir. I doubt you'd be at all surprised by your behaviour."

"What, I hug you or something?"

"Actually, after finding you eating ice-cream and pepperoni slices in the kitchen, we had a very nice conversation." Unfortunately that does sound exactly like me when I'm hammered. I always eat weird combinations of food when I'm totally past being considered wrecked, even if I hate them. I also run my mouth. So, no, I'm not surprised.

"So, what's the damage, Al? I just bore you about being a blue-movie version of Oliver Twist again?" I inquire, sitting down next to where the man is kneeling. He shakes his head and returns to his pruning.

"Not this time, Master Jason. You were altogether more cheery than usual. You talked a great deal about your mother and long summers in Gotham. It made quite a refreshing change from the typically dark stories this household is infamous for."

"Well, I'm glad you liked them. And I'm glad they inspired you to save my ass from Bruce's temper this morning, props to you. So where is the big man?"

"Where else? He's in the cave. Can he expect you to make an appearance?" Yeah, sure I'll trade the sun for a dark hole in the ground and a man with a mind as open and flexible as the Berlin Wall. Good luck on selling that to this intrepid sidekick. I shrug my shoulders.

"I don't know; it's a beautiful day outside. Maybe I'll just hang out with you." Al ceases his activity again to look at me. He's got one of his earnest expressions on. The time for serious point-making is now it would seem.

"As delightful a prospect as that may sound, I do believe Master Bruce would like your company." I can't help but scoff at that bad line. Get a new writer, Al.

"Just because you're not Pinocchio, Al, that's no reason to lie your butt off to me."

"Please give him a chance, Master Jason. He is trying awfully hard today." Right, because you TOLD him to be nice to me, Mr Pennyworth; without you, he would've torn my head off about last night. Let me try explaining my predicament succinctly for you…

"But he sucks, Al. There's no nice way to say that; the man sucks…he just totally sucks."

"Then please go spend some time with him for me, Jason." Stop defending him, Al. Just stop pushing him on me like I want a meaningful relationship with this man. He had his shot to bring me in and all he did was push me out. Don't use your friendship with me to try and coerce me into this situation either, okay? It's not cool. I don't even have to say this out loud for Al to understand my position; I just look so despondent about the whole idea it must be obvious. Al puts a gloved hand on my shoulder and holds up just his index finger with the other. "One hour, Sir, just one single hour to try with him. You may be surprised." I let out what can only be described as a groaning, reluctant sigh. It's perfect for how I feel right now. Al just shakes his single digit harder for me. Fine. I'll play ball. He's got an hour to show me something fresh or I'm walking. I'm not trying anymore after today. That's a promise.

I jam on a hooded sweatshirt, actually one of those novelty items that's designed off the Robin tunic and sold to tourists, and head into the abyss. They do a Batman one too, but on this one I could have my initials on the back. I went with just JT and sacked off my middle name; JT sounds cool, JPT sounds like a pharmaceutical drug for constipation or something. Bruce thinks it's the tackiest thing he's ever seen and hates me wearing it. So I wear it all the time. I'm annoying like that. I find him hunched over bone fragments in the forensics lab. For the first time ever, he looks up right away when I approach.

"Hello Jason. How are you feeling now?" He asks. This is a promising start. He's clutching at straws. I shrug my shoulders.

"Fine. Al said I should come see you. What you working on? Is this part of that murder case?" I gesture to the bone fragments on the table. Bruce nods.

"That's right. I think this might be the killer's first victim."

"I thought it wasn't a serial killer."

"Officially it's not, but I believe the similarities between the current investigation's victims and this one from a case fifteen years earlier are too convenient to ignore. If I'm right, I may deduce their identity before Sunday evening."

"That's good."

"Yes." Bruce pauses to consider something. He puts down the fragment in his gloved hand and considers again before finally speaking. "Jason, can we talk about something?"

"Yeah, sure. Look, I know plastic surgery's risky, but you need a new face; this one you're trying to snare women with now, it's just not good enough. I was thinking rhinoplasty, face lift, maybe some pec implants…"

"No jokes, please." Fine, no jokes, just the way you like to ratchet up tension and make me feel uncomfortable and inappropriate in my own skin. I lean back against one of the support struts.

"Okay, just come out with it."

"Have you ever been truly happy living here? I just feel like…you hate living here sometimes. Is that true?" Hold your tongue, Jay-Jay. This is a golden question, one that demands some careful thinking before you do a role-reversal and tear him apart for once. Be diplomatic.

"Anything I say would make me seem ungrateful."

"I really don't care. Please speak your mind."

"Look, you're not a bad guy, okay? Anybody who has as much money as you do and still manages to be selfless is amazing. And Al, you know, the guy is the nicest man I've ever met and both of you are pretty patient with me. You plucked me off the streets without really knowing the first thing about me and gave me an opportunity that only one other person in the whole world has had. And I worked my ass off to make good on that chance. And you also gave me a home and an education and a really good life. I wake up every day happy that I sleep in a warm bed in a safe house with the world's greatest detective as my guardian and a butler whose cooking is sensational. So I'm thankful for that. But as much as I respect you and admire you and all that stuff, I've never really loved you like you wanted me to." And gauge his reaction: doesn't seem all that surprised here. Let's continue.

"And it's not because of the high expectations and my disappointing you that I feel like this, it's none of that. It's because of how you tell me I've failed you. You come down on my every misstep and error like a ton of fucking bricks, every single time without exception. Even if I perform well, you inevitably focus on my mistakes and belittle my achievements, make me feel inferior and useless at every turn. You know the best compliment you ever gave me after a patrol was? In the last four years, you know what you said? 'Good job'. That's it. That is the highest standard of praise I have ever wrenched from your mouth in the four years I've been busting my ass for you. 'Good job'? Jesus Bruce, even a damn six-year-old gets better than that for making a macaroni picture; I apprehend a gang of deadly thugs single-handedly, nearly killing myself in the process, and all I get is 'good job'? Are you on crack?" Okay, dial it back, starting to spit here. I compose myself. "And it suffocates me. All your nit-picking and glowering and finger points makes it hard for me to breathe. I feel so trapped sometimes, like a rat in a fucking wheel in a cage. So I escape sometimes. I go out and I drink and I smoke and I party my ass off to release the pressure, ease the tension. And, for a few hours, it's great. Then I come back and you come down on me even harder. Fuck the bricks; you just topple the whole building on top of me. Honestly, I get so angry about it all I feel like I could kill someone. So yeah, sometimes I do hate it here. Sometimes I do." Boom, done and dusted. The big man's rebuttal to this torrent of criticism? He nods his head once and speaks as if I had never spoken at all.

"I see. Thank you for enlightening me, Jason." He turns back to the bone fragments and is about to continue his tests. It doesn't show, but I hurt him a little with what I said. It's almost imperceptible, but he's upset by my response. Somehow, despite meaning everything I just said, I still feel bad for making him experience just a fraction of my angst. So I backtrack slightly.

"Bruce…" The man watches as I round the table and stand toe-to-toe with him. "Look what you did this morning, letting me off lightly, you know that was really cool. That was what I want more of, just a little bit of give and take between us." He nods but articulates nothing to reply to that. "Look, I get I'm not the easiest kid in the world to work with either. I'm moody, hot-tempered, too good-looking and talented for my own good and don't give you an inch when I should give you a mile. So, how about we're both sorry about the past, yeah? We pretend like none of it happened for a while and try to start fresh. That sound good to you?" Bruce smiles.

"That would be something." I nod in agreement.

"So, we hug on it and give it a shot." The big man raises an eyebrow.

"You would willingly hug me to seal a deal like this?"

"One time only, Jason Todd will let you hug him. Show me a sixteen-year-old boy who'd ever show that kind of security in himself and I'll call you a lying bastard." He's lucky I'm still feeling last night; it makes me lenient and way less spiteful than he deserves. I shouldn't bother hugging him, but I'll try anyway. I don't wait for Bruce to lurch forward like Frankenstein's monster and bear hug me; I just reach out with my arms and latch them round his waist. There's no stiff body to be found. Bruce expected this and is cooperating nicely. He wraps his massive arms round my back and squeezes me gently. So far, so good. "Look, I'll try if you try, big man. This is a two-way deal."

"I understand. Thank you for the opportunity, Jason."

"Ah, call me Jay-Jay. Your nickname will be Wide Load."

"Bruce will suffice. You try and I'll try."

"Check."

That's right folks; we're remaking the pilot of this show again. Hopefully this time, I won't drop the F bomb as much and maybe Bruce will be funny…

No, but I'll seriously try to be good.


	6. Chapter 6

**Slum**

I wasn't born in Gotham, something you think I'd be more vocal about considering the ridiculous level of crime and my dark past living on its streets, but I'm not. My mom had me in Bludhaven, a shit-hole even worse than my current address. My parents moved to Gotham when I was about two because my old man needed work. Since he'd already floated in and out of prison a few times before, my dad couldn't get regular minimum wage jobs. So he got a minimum wage job as an enforcer for a bookie in The Narrows. My mom had it easier; she got a gig as a secretary in some advertising agency for something a little better. So, between them, they managed to scrape together a living for me. I can't say for certain I was always warm, fed and clothed, but since I survived past ten, it's a safe bet they did their best. Then my mom got cancer.

You want to know the worst part of living with someone who has cancer? It's not knowing they're going to die and there's nothing you can do to stop it; its how fucking fast it takes them away from you. No sooner had she broken it to me, she was already on her deathbed. I was barely eleven when she died. We cremated her, only because we couldn't afford a burial plot. My dad scattered her ashes in private and never told me where. He never really recovered from that, not really. One thing about my old man though, he did love me. That's why he took that job running with Two-Face's gang, to feed me. I dropped out of school after my mom's funeral and was never going to go back. My dad knew that so he sent me to earn some bread too.

I was always bad for imitating people. My dad smoked so I did. My dad's 'friends' hung out in the gambling dens and the pool halls so I did. I did what they did; I lied, I cheated and I stole from almost everybody. Even though I was just like him, my old man wanted me on a straight and narrow path. He must've fixed me up with a dozen part-time jobs. I worked in a kitchen, a bakery, a newspaper kiosk and some other equally mind-numbing operations. I never quit any, but I was fired from all of them. Pretty sure that, back then, I was a kleptomaniac in the extreme. Somebody left something and I lifted it without thinking twice. That's kinda why it was so easy to fire me; all you had to do was leave something decent unattended and watch from the shadows. All things told, I probably made less than twenty bucks in a whole year towards my upkeep. So my dad socked me a few times. He wasn't a bad guy at heart; he just wanted me to grow up better than he did. That just didn't work out.

Bruce always asked me if I saw Two-Face kill my old man. I've never given him the answer, not because I want secrets, but because I don't want him knowing EVERYTHING about me. It's bad enough he knows about me prostituting myself for food and shelter without him knowing that too. Truth is, I didn't see my dad get slotted by that psychopath. I was hustling people on the pool table when Mr Dent stuck two bullets either side of his chest. I found out later, when I staggered home the next morning. I was good at hustling and I was a decent runner when things turned ugly, but if you got hold of me, my game was over. I remember that night two guys chipped three of my front teeth and almost broke my arm after I scammed them out of three-hundred bucks. Long story short, they got their money back…and then some.

Social Services tried to take me away and put me into care. Looking back now, I wish I hadn't run so fast. I never even gave them a chance to state their case; I just fled into the alleyways and the condemned buildings to live out my days as a free man. That just didn't work out either. And now where am I? Right back where I started, hustling pickpockets and murderers for small change in some decrepit pool hall, deep in The Narrows. Except of course the minor details of being both a billionaire's ward and a teenage superhero. But I don't feel any different now than I did as an eleven-year-old wise guy biting off more than he could ever possibly chew. I'm still not afraid of anybody else and I'm still a kid hardened by life and death in these very streets. I'm still tougher than everybody else my age. The only real difference of any significance now is that, when push eventually comes to shove, I can shove harder than anybody else in this whole district. And let me tell you, the way I'm knocking these chumps off, the shoving is coming pretty damn soon.

"Fucking no way!" The bigger, angrier chump yells when I screw off three cushions to pot the black at the opposite end of the table. I'm up four hundred bucks from sweetening these guys to the limit with my pocket money, roughly three hundred bucks. So, after losing the first five games, I've now won six-in-a-row to put seven hundred dollars on my side of the table.

"Goodness…" I say innocently scratching my head, "I can't believe how lucky that shot was. Well, I think it's past my bedtime now gentleman, so I'm going to go. It was a pleasure playing with you." As I go to gather up my winnings, the big ape-like specimen slams his fist down to rattle the table legs and draw everybody's attention. Shoving time has arrived.

"You cheated us. Hand over the money and we'll let you go." He offers like it's a fair deal. I smile at him genially.

"Nah, I don't think so, King Kong. This money's got my name all over it." I reply, stuffing the bills into my jean pockets. His ugly friends have begun to close ranks on me. Ape Man shakes his head and puts a fist into an open hand as he bears down on me.

"Hand it over or I'll make you earn it on your knees for me and my buddies." Why are these guys ALWAYS perverts? Isn't it bad enough they're criminals without adding sexual deviant to their resumes? I roll my eyes.

"I wouldn't even kiss you for seven hundred bucks, let alone suck your dick." He grins at me with a chessboard of rotting and yellow teeth.

"We'll see about that."

As soon as he goes to swing, I've struck him twice; once in the face and one in the stomach. Before he can sink to his knees I've kicked and fractured his jaw with the heel of my sneaker. The others descend on me like locusts, attacking all at once, but it really makes no difference. I just flow from one finishing blow to another, chaining a spinning heel kick into an elbow strike into a throat jab into a hip throw followed by an arm breaker and then into a sickening head-butt. Within ten seconds of threatening me, King Kong and six of his 'buddies' are crawling round my feet like cockroaches. I stamp on Kong's groin to make him howl and smirk. "Welcome to the jungle, tough-guy."

The manager yells for me to get out before he calls the cops. I flip him the bird and wander out with all my winnings. It's about midnight now on a Saturday night. The Narrows are quiet for once; everybody's still inside the gin joints and gambling dens getting wasted. Things usually liven up around four when most places kick out. Bruce will come out on patrol around then, backed up by the GCPD patrols that are also too familiar with this population's habits. Even if I wasn't who I am, I'd still be in no danger walking down the streets on my own at this time of night. Most people in Gotham never know that. At certain times of the day on certain days of the week, The Narrows is safe to tread around. I light up a smoke as I get into the subway station. There's an old-looking bum huddled in a corner near the men's room watching me as I wait for the next car. He looks haggard and miserable, dressed in about five frayed coats and some moth-ravaged jogging pants. I know the feeling. Poor guy must be around sixty-five. I walk over to him.

"Hi." I say leaning down and offering my cigarette, "You smoke?" The bum nods and reaches up for it. I watch him take a long, slow drag. He closes his eyes and nods his head repeatedly in appreciation before blowing out a few smoke rings.

"I know you from somewhere, boy. Where do I know you from?" The bum replies, shaking the cigarette at me. I shrug. "I've seen you on the newspapers. You were wearing a tuxedo and standing with a big fella and some fancy-looking people. Are you famous?" Most guys would dismiss this man as crazy if he came out with something that specific, but I know what he's talking about. Bruce made me attend a charity ball with him a couple of days ago. He insisted I pose with him and his affluent snobs or 'friends' and the stupid papers ran that one photograph to print. I think they even captioned my name and took a remark I said out of context for the article. The article apparently reported me as saying 'This is what's important, helping people who can't work to support themselves'. What I actually said was 'THIS is what's _important_? Helping people who can't work to support themselves by giving them free fucking hand-outs? Half of them are benefit cheats and lazy bastards! They don't deserve a cent!'.

"Nah, the guy who adopted me is famous though. You heard of Bruce Wayne?" The bum scoffs at me as he takes another drag.

"Have I heard of Bruce Wayne? Who in this city hasn't? The guy's got more money than the population's got sense between them! So how come you're way out here, dressed like that if you're rich?" The way I'm dressed is how I used to when I was younger. There's no designer labels or imported fabrics, fancy colour schemes or overpriced accessories to hide behind; I'm wearing black Keds, worn jeans with holes in both knees, a faded Gotham Knights T-shirt and an old army jacket with the ribbons and rank still sown on. I picked it up at a thrift store in the Upper-East Side for fifty bucks; apparently it belonged to the winner of a Purple Heart and Silver Star in Vietnam. I tell people who ask that it was my grandfather's. It'd be suicide to dress like I do with the big guy down here. I would literally be mugged inside of a second. There's no product in my hair either; Al insists I use it even though I hate the feel of it on my scalp. Truth is, even though I've been domesticated by Bruce to conforming to his expectations, cutting loose on a weekend and just being normal is to me a greater freedom than being Robin.

"Sometimes I like to slum it." The old man smirks at my answer.

"You've never been anywhere near a silver spoon, have you boy? No, I can tell just from the look in your eyes that you and me are cut from the same cloth. How long did you live on the streets for?"

"About eighteen months."

"That's good going. Me, I've lived on these streets for twenty-eight years. I know already I'm gonna die on these streets. I've got lung cancer you see, from the smoking. I started when I was about your age."

"You trying to get me to quit, old man?" I inquire sparking up another smoke. The bum dismisses it with a hand gesture.

"Hell, son, I'm nobody to be giving advice to a kid. I was somebody once, you know." I take a drag.

"Oh yeah? Who'd you used to be?"

"Chief of Police." Okay, that's a little bit of a stunning response. I stop smoking for a moment in the aftermath.

"You're shitting me."

"No, Sir, way back when, I was the Chief of Police in this city. They call it a commissioner now, but the principle's the same. You're the big man calling the shots." That is one impressive fall from grace. I have to know more.

"And what happened?"

"My family was killed in an arson attack on my house. I went to drink and I wound up sitting here talking to you three decades later." To most people, a story like that would be shocking, but unfortunately I've heard that kind of tragedy too many times now to really be affected. I let out a sigh that at least sounds sympathetic.

"Well, that sucks. You just couldn't pick yourself back up or something?" The bum nods.

"Pretty much."

"Well, have this." I toss him about five hundred bucks rolled up and tied with a rubber band from my jean pocket. "See if you can't make your last days more comfortable and I'm _not_ talking about a hospice." I give him a sly wink as my train rocks up.

It's about one when I finally reach North Gotham. From here, it's only about seven miles as the crow flies to Wayne Manor. I can jog that in under fifty minutes. I'm about to start when a car pulls up alongside me. I stand still and wait as the driver's side window is rolled down.

"Hello, Mr Todd." Jim Gordon says to me. I incline my head and give him a sheepish smile.

"Hiya Jim. Nice night, huh?"

"Yes, it is, but you shouldn't know about that. You should be in bed." I shrug my shoulders.

"I have insomnia." Jim feigns surprise.

"Really? I hear there's a pill for that. "

"I hear it's a suppository. No thank you."

"We got a call through about an hour ago from Larry Markowitz down at Nine Ball Limit pool hall in The Narrows. Apparently, some young punk hustled one of his best customers and then sent seven guys to the emergency room. You want to hear the description of this guy?" I grin.

"Is he black?" Jim Gordon hates casual racism. He narrows his eyes at me in stark disapproval before shaking his head.

"No. Funnily enough, he was your height, your weight, approximately your age and wearing your clothes." He begins drumming his fingers on the outside of the car door. Is he waiting for a confession? From ME? Sorry, Jimmy, no sale.

"Well, the downtrodden and disenchanted youth look is very popular this season." He gestures to my feet.

"Jason, I can see the blood on your sneakers. If you get in the car and let me take you home, we'll say no more about it."

"What's the alternative?" Jim slaps the car door as he replies, sounding a little less than kind.

"Alfred picks you up from the cells again."

"Touché." I get in the passenger seat and we begin to drive off. Jim Gordon and I go back. Before I was Robin, Jim was the police officer kind enough to let me go after I was brought in on prostitution charges. They should've banged me up in care and mental hospitals with psychiatrists and cold-handed doctors, but they didn't because he turned me loose. It nearly cost him his job. I owe him a lot for that favour. Then there was the charity ball a couple of days ago. Jim hates those damn gatherings as much as I do, because he's been in the trenches too. We spent almost the whole night chatting. It was nice to speak to the man without needing a mask, although I think getting that close with him for that amount of time was pretty much a spoiler for my secret identity. Jim's not stupid, not by a long way and quite frankly I suck at acting like anyone else but myself, no matter what I'm doing. I don't even disguise my voice when I'm Robin and I behave the same as I am right now. The only difference is the level of damage I cause and who to. This little stunt tonight probably sealed the deal. From here it doesn't take a genius to figure out who I answer to underneath the cowl. He won't say anything, but I think he knows.

"You just finish your shift or something?" I ask.

"Something like that." Jim mutters back. Right then I know he's been working overtime to stave off loneliness.

"You really think I'm a punk, Jim?" I ask after a couple of minutes. He smirks.

"No. Markowitz said you were a punk, I was just reiterating what he told me. So, seven guys huh? The lightest one must've been two-hundred and twenty pounds; what do you weigh, Jason?" I shrug my shoulders.

"A little less than that."

"Try fifty pounds less. One of them said it was like being hit by a cement truck."

"People exaggerate, Jim, you know that."

"What were you doing in there anyway? Why would you risk your neck like that? You like causing trouble?" God he sounds like a real father. Too bad I'm not HIS teenage tearaway; I might turn over a new leaf with a man this straight and honest to look up to.

"Old habits die hard. Sometimes I just need to go back there. I like the familiarity, you know? It feels like home."

"And Wayne Manor doesn't?"

"No need to play broken records, Jim. That place is NOT my home; it's just where I sleep. Look, I promise I won't do this again, okay? This was the last time, honest."

"I know that's bull, Jason. I worry about you, son. It's not good for you to be out at all hours and socializing with that class of criminal. Not alone anyway."

"Listen, no offence, but I'm not a middle-class white kid from the suburbs with 4.0 grade average and no common sense; I can handle myself on the streets just fine." I'm snippy with him because I can get very touchy about my habits. If I want to wander the length of this city's underbelly in just my street clothes and hustle guys I probably would avoid even in costume, I will. I'm impulsive and short on patience; that's who I am. I like being that way. Jim shakes his head.

"This isn't about handling yourself in a fight, Jason. This is about succumbing to their level and becoming one of them. I don't want to see a bright kid like you spending his best years behind bars because he got carried away one too many times." I have to balk at that.

"Jim, I spent six months in Juvie when I was nine. I spent eighteen months living on the streets. I already lost my childhood to crime and violence. I was already an adult when I was twelve. You ever think I can't be saved? Sometimes I think life behind bars is a matter of time rather than a possibility." He slams the breaks on and we shudder to a halt. He turns to face me and sighs lethargically.

"You know you're cheerier in the cape." I roll my eyes and offer up a small smile.

"You could've kept that one to yourself you know." He smiles back.

"I like to think we're friends, Jason. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't care who you are and I never cared who your boss was either. What mattered to me was that you two chose to uphold the law rather than exploit it. Now I admit, when you first showed up, you were a bit wild and more than a little reckless, but now you're almost better than your predecessor. You've worked hard to be this good and you should be proud of yourself for all you've accomplished. I couldn't imagine what hell you were put through to reach your current level of ability, but that you were willing to sacrifice everything people take for granted to fight on their behalf shows me that you are someone destined for better things. I'm sure it must be hard to live with him, but you've managed it so far. So don't just go back to the way things were because the going gets tough and it's an easier ride. Keep fighting and you'll get your reward. You'll do great things if you just keep yourself together." This kind of buttering up should make me think of Hansel and Gretel, getting all fattened up by praises only to get eaten alive later on, but I really just think how nice it would be to hear this from Bruce. As arrogant and egotistical as it sounds, I expect this kind of pep talk from Jim Gordon. He's the one guy who's always in your corner, always willing to hear your side of things. Just like Al, Jim's got a heart of gold. The city's definitely throwing him a parade when he retires, no question.

"You're a good guy, Jim, one of the best." I tell him sincerely.

"I do what I can, son. Sorry to lay it on so thick just now. Barbara says I have a tendency to preach."

"Advice is always appreciated. Sometimes I really don't know what I'm doing out here."

"We all feel like that sometimes, Jason. You probably know more about being lost than most. If you ever want to talk, my door's always open. You can either walk through the door or climb through the window, whatever you prefer." That is some subtle humour he's just thrown at me. There's a serious underlying message too, a hand offering friendship and understanding to a guy who is young and wild and pretty blunt with his view of people. I should say thanks at this stage, but I don't do that sort of thing too many times in one night. So I just give him the ambiguous reply.

"I'll think about it."

He drops me off outside the front gate less than five minutes later. I say goodbye, he drives off and I scale the gate without any difficulty. I jog the quarter-mile path to the front door, go round the back and use my key to deactivate the alarm and security system in place when opening the service entrance door. I go in to the kitchen, eat two chicken breasts, broccoli and some other greens before scaling the main staircase. I go in my room, shower and then get into bed. Bruce is lurking in the shadows, but thinks I don't know he's there. He'll be in full costume, ready to deal with the weekend crowd in The Narrows. He hangs around another couple of minutes before soundlessly leaving the room via the window I always leave open during the day. He'll be shouting at me tomorrow. I said I'd be good and I lied. I said we'd try to start over, but I just can't be a good boy and play nice…

Being bad is just too much fun.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Jason has a nightmare and something of a premonition. Does he go to Bruce? Hell, no, he just tries to do things on his own, as usual. Bruce comes along anyway. This is as fluffy a moment as there will ever be between these two. Enjoy.**

**Doomed**

I'm falling in the dark. But I'm not falling slowly; I'm plummeting like a boulder shoved off the top of the Grand Canyon. I can't see anything or hear anything above the noise of my descent. And even as I seem to fall endlessly at a speed that should be impossible towards an uncertain climax, I know this is not the worst of it. There are far worse things awaiting me than a terrifying fall from dizzyingly high heights. I hit solid ground and am unhurt. I look up and find myself in Crime Alley. It's raining and everything is bathed in a weird, red glow. I stand up and look down at my feet. I'm twelve years old again, wearing sneakers way too big for me and worn out hammy-downs. When I look up again, I see them. My mom and dad are hanging from the walls, nailed against the brickwork in crucifix positions, a contorted look of horror and suffering etched into their dead faces. Someone has scrawled 'WHORE' in foot-high letters next to my mom's body. My dad has 'DEADBEAT' scribbled next to his. I can already see there is a space between their corpses just big enough to accommodate me. Someone's already taken the liberty of writing 'RENTBOY' on my behalf in the gap. All of this has been done with blood. Over the sound of rain, I hear the crackling of hungry flames. Then he steps from the shadows.

Even though the figure is clad in a cape and cowl, I know this creature is not Bruce; this is the devil. He regards me with blood-shot eyes and pulls his face into a ghastly grin eerily similar to The Joker. The devil gestures with a single finger to the space between my folks and nods in my direction. He wants me to go quietly and join them. It's now my turn to suffer. I understand immediately. I think I always did understand that it would all end this way. I knew somewhere inside that I would die young and I would meet my end alone. I am twelve years old and I am confronting Satan in Crime Alley. My fate is sealed. I shouldn't be afraid of death anymore. I should be able to accept this end without any kind of apprehension. I should just let him torture me until I am no more. But I clench my fists.

I'm terrified of death though, haunted by its ghost stalking my every night on patrol or in a tight spot. The rain stops pouring. I eye the devil with adrenaline racing through my body and my heart pounding like a jackhammer. The devil stops smiling. His hand comes down. He begins to growl. I'm too chicken to let him kill me, too petrified to accept my fate without one last dance.

I am no longer twelve; I am sixteen and I am dressed for combat. I am Robin and I have no death wish. I will fight for my survival until my last breath because the shadow in the valley of death hangs over my head and my very existence depends on winning this battle. If he wants me to die, he's going to have to kill me and I'm going to make him earn it. I look at my parents and find they are nothing but grey skeletons covered in rags. Their faces are still frozen in agony. I look back to the devil in the bat suit.

"You want me, Bruce?" I shout as the sound of crackling flames increases in the absence of the rain. There are no jokes anymore. I'm too freaking tight to make any kind of quip and he knows why. The devil takes a few steps forward and gestures to my parents again. Now they are howling, bloody messes, and misshapen monsters with human form. They wail and they thrash hopelessly against their nailed limbs, finding no give or escape waits for them to discover. I reach for a batarang as my heart climbs into my mouth. I still have enough voice left for one last act of defiance. "Come get me, you son of a bitch." I growl back as my fingers close around the batarang's outer edge. The devil charges forward with outstretched claws and a deafening banshee shriek that overwhelms even the flames. I hold my ground as my legs scream for me to run and my heart goes so fast it could explode out my chest any second. The devil is bearing down on me, but I still refuse to move. My parents continue to howl. I glare at them and yell for them to shut up. I turn back in time to strike the devil with my projectile and kick him in the nuts. He still wrestles me to the concrete and begins clawing at my costume, trying to tear it to shreds with me inside it. I thrash and manage to head-butt him in the face. This only seems to make him stronger and he continues to rip chunks of flesh from my body. I hit him again and again and each time he only attacks harder and with more brutality than before.

I have no energy left to fight with, but I continue anyway. I can't fight him off and I can't stop him. Somehow I knew that too. I knew I stood no chance of beating him, but I have to keep trying. What alternative is there?

"_Beg me, Jason." _The devil sneers leaning forward so our faces are almost touching, _"Beg me to stop. Beg me not to kill you like your parents. I want to hear you plead and weep for me to stop."_ I want to beg. I really want to beg for him to spare me eternal suffering and all that crap. I want to, but I can't. I'm not allowed to do that. I did enough begging and pleading and weeping in dark motel rooms with faceless monsters to last a dozen lifetimes. So I glare up at him and bare my teeth.

"You fucking beg me to start. You fucking plead with me to give you anything but this." I spit in his face. His eyes begin to burn with an intensity and fire that can only come from hatred. He raises a claw-like hand above my head and I watch my life flash before my eyes as it comes down.

I wake up screaming but it passes quickly. My skin is clammy with a cold sweat as I throw off the covers and switch on the light. I'm in my bedroom. It's three-forty-seven in the morning. There are no flames, skeletons, monsters or otherwise in my room. I'm not about to die and I'm not covered in holes where devils have torn my flesh off. So why the hell can't I stop shaking? I splash my face with cold water, whip on my workout gear and head to the gym.

I find the punch bag immediately and just hit it for the next hour. I hit it as hard as I can and as fast as I can until the blows leave blood and skin instead of indentations. Even as my skinned knuckles sing in stinging pain, I continue to strike. My body is drenched in sweat and every muscle aches beyond anything recently experienced, but I can't stop. I still feel fragile inside, like I might actually break down. I can't let that happen. I have to beat the fear out of my system. Nothing else will work. Nothing else will heal like this. If my hands are going to shake, I want it to be from exhaustion, not fear. An hour comes and goes and suddenly it's almost five. I finally stop swinging and press my forehead against the bag. My body almost collapses in following my head, but I manage to steady my legs.

"Should I even ask?" I hear Bruce says from across the hall. I don't look over to him when responding.

"No. This is all just a bad dream, go to bed." My words come out in-between ragged and breathless pauses. I hear him advance towards me. "Stay away, Bruce. Just back the fuck away." He doesn't even hesitate in continuing forward. My eyes close as his footsteps grow louder until he has to be standing right next to me. I feel his hand settle on my shoulder. I shrug it off violently. He replaces it and squeezes. I don't have the energy to shrug it off again.

"Please talk to me." He says without attempting to turn me round. I ignore him. I don't want this conversation. I don't want this feeling. I want to be free of all of this shit. I bite down on my bottom lip; the tears are coming. I'm too fragile to speak without bawling. I need space to breathe. I'm being suffocated right now; he's too close to me right now. My hands really hurt now and my skin is getting cold. I feel pathetic. I need to get away from here. Maybe if I give him something to work on, he'll leave me to it.

"Had a nightmare. You were the devil and you were killing me." His hand doesn't move, even though I really think he should, following a statement like that. He squeezes my shoulder again.

"And you thought breaking your hands would help with that?" He's got jokes? That's really not fair at all. And his hand being on my shoulder isn't fair either. You can't play the man in the white hat when we all know your motif of choice is a black bat. I don't want to speak to him, but somehow I try to anyway.

"I needed…to do…something to make it stop…anything…I just…" I can't hold it together anymore. I tip over the edge and begin weeping like a girl. He turns me around and forces me to look him in the eye. He nods at me in understanding. Then he embraces me against his chest. I feel so ashamed of myself for crumbling right in front of him, even if it is what it is. He holds me in perfect silence for almost ten minutes until I calm down.

"And then he's bearing down on me and I want to run, but I can't move." I tell the big man as he bandages my hands after applying disinfectant. We're in the kitchen and I'm wearing Bruce's dressing gown to keep out the cold. "Then he asks me to beg him to stop. He just wants me to beg for my life. It was like I was just doomed from the start." Bruce looks mildly surprised for some reason.

"Doomed is something of a strong word to describe a nightmare, Jason."

"No, it fits, Bruce. Doomed really fits me." Bruce rests his hand on top of mine and squeezes it.

"You are NOT doomed, Jason; you're just tired and upset. Let's get you to bed and see how you feel after some sleep." I take my hand back. We'd all like to be able to sleep off our problems, Bruce, but, as you always demonstrate when I wake up, you're still here. I sneer.

"You really think I want to shut my eyes again after all that crap I just told you? Screw that idea!" I'm sounding pretty petulant at the moment, like a nine-year-old. Bruce isn't giving it up just yet though.

"You've had nightmares many times before now; what makes this one different to the others? Any other nightmare wouldn't even warrant a second thought from you usually."

"This seemed more like a premonition than a nightmare."

"You think I'm going to kill you?" If only things were so simple.

"No, more likely I'm gonna get killed _because_ of you." Bruce clenches his jaw in response before shaking his head. Either he doesn't believe I'm right or he's ashamed of himself for making me come to that conclusion. He gives nothing away.

"I have nightmares too as you've probably guessed. Sometimes many of them also seem to be prophetic and forecast an early grave or the death of someone close to me. But these are not glimpses of our futures; they are just projections of our subconscious. They have no real basis in reality, no matter how close to the bone they appear. I would never let you die on my account, Jason. Regardless of how things go between us, I will always care about you too much to allow such a thing." He sounds horribly sincere in what he's saying. For once, I don't offer a comeback. He puts his hand on my shoulder. "A lot of the time, I forget you're just a kid. Sometimes I forget it was only four-and-a-half years ago that we first met; it feels like we've spent a dozen lifetimes together already. You've always been so hard on the outside, so tough on the inside that I dismiss the idea you can hurt at all anymore. It makes vulnerability in you seem impossible. I don't think I've ever seen you cry until earlier tonight."

"Don't make a big deal of it, okay?"

"I think I have to because it proves something very important about you. Despite acting to the contrary, Jason Todd still needs people. You still need people to care about you."

He's right on the money as much as I want to pretend otherwise. Normally I don't need people. Normally people don't need me either. So I go without anything or anyone and then nothing can hurt me. But my armour cracked and I let that kid I keep inside slip out. I needed Bruce tonight. When the big man held me like that, I felt safe. I haven't felt safe in a long time. Living on a knife edge every night of the week does that to you; every minute you spend in costume could be your last moment on Earth. It has a way of driving you into yourself, making you paranoid about letting anybody else get close to you. Bruce helped cultivate that little hang-up of mine but still, I forgot what real affection feels like even if he's responsible for helping my nightmares find an antagonist to torment me. "Are you ever just going to quit on me? Are you ever just going to throw in the towel and say 'enough is enough'? I drive you crazy."

"I'm not a high school science teacher, Jason; I like to think my capacity for patience and tolerance is somewhat above such a defeatist attitude, even with someone as stubborn as you to butt heads with. I won't lose you without fighting like a man possessed to keep what he considers most precious to his heart. You understand? Any demon that wants to take you away is going to have to take me too before I give you up." It sounds bad, but I don't think I ever heard my mom say anything like that, about keeping me safe at all costs. Even if she had, hell even if my old man had thrown his hat in the ring with a line like that, they'd have sounded as convincing as kindergarteners acting out the school nativity. Bruce is a totally different proposition.

He would LITERALLY fight off the demons to save me, like he has done countless times before. He can literally rescue me from any fate I can think of, no matter how dark and hopeless I make it seem. Because, despite the crap that comes out his mouth most nights, the man is physically and psychologically the most unflappable and perfectly crafted human being I have ever seen. Breaking him is close to impossible. And this is why I get angry with him; sometimes it seems like no matter what I do, I'll never be liked in his eyes, never be seen as Golden Boy's equal in or out of costume. Changing his mind is a lost cause before it starts. But, maybe I've got the totally wrong end of the stick on this one. I nod at him.

"Thanks. I think I'm going to go to bed now." I say standing up. Bruce nods in understanding.

"I see. Will I see you before midday?" I offer him a lopsided grin.

"Don't count on it." He smiles back before getting to his feet as well. His hand finds the back of my neck and rubs it briefly.

"You are always safe here, Jason. Alfred and I will always be here to help you, no matter what. Okay?"

"Okay. You want your robe back?"

"Wash it first." I roll my eyes, but can't help but continue to smile at his efforts.

"Funny guy."

"Someone has to be." He takes his hand back, "Goodnight Jason." I don't think I can express in words how thankful I am we had this conversation. I suck at speeches and it always shows in situations like these. So I do something else, something few other people in this world have experienced from Jason Todd and hope he understands the significance of such a gesture. I push up onto my tip-toes and kiss him once on the cheek. He doesn't even flinch.

"Night Bruce." And just like that, I leave him standing there knowing I care. Doomed? Fucking shut up, Jay-Jay; you're not doomed until you've finished your last breath.


	8. Chapter 8

**Slum 2**

**Author's Note: Ever bemoaned the lack of female characters in my stories? Read this and think again. Enjoy. **

Gotham Central Station is a gothic monstrosity located in the heart of the city. It's also probably the only train station I've ever seen that has gargoyles in the entryways. And, as a young kid, I used to come here with my dad. We never took a train anywhere, not even just to get across the city; my old man always preferred the subway. That's why one day, when I was seven, I asked him why we came to a train station if it wasn't to catch a train. My dad crouched down in front of me, smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Sometimes we don't go to places for what there is do when we get there. Sometimes we just go to places because we like them." I didn't really understand at the time. I got that my old man liked the station like I liked the park on the corner of our block, but I knew why I liked the park. I could go on the swings or the merry-go-round wheel or on the monkey bars. I liked the park because of what there was to do, not because it was a park. After my mom died, he went to the station alone a lot. Sometimes, after finishing being fired from my job, I'd walk home through the station and find him sat there. I always found him sat on the same bench on the same platform every time: the last bench on Platform Nine, practically out of the station altogether. One day when I was eleven, I asked him about that too.

"When I was a kid, you know, maybe sixteen or seventeen, I came to Gotham from Bludhaven to find some work. The train I travelled on, it pulled up on this platform and my carriage door opened right in front of this bench I'm sitting on. I stepped off the train and I saw this girl about my age sitting where I am now. She was crying about something, must've been pretty upsetting with the waterworks she was putting on. So I went up to her, kinda nervous, and asked what was wrong. She said her boyfriend had just broken up with her, broken her heart and all that touchy-feely stuff. So I sat with her and, ten years later, she was my wife and gave me you. I come here because it reminds me of that first time." It was crazy. I'd been dragged along by my old man to this place for years and he'd never once told me that story. I asked him why I'd never heard it before. He just laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Dads aren't supposed to talk about that kind of lovey-dovey stuff with their sons. Now, if you were my daughter…"

About seven months later, he was dead. When I first started living rough, I used to come to the station too and sit on that end bench on Platform Nine, just as he did. I never got a train anywhere either. During the summer, I slept underneath the bench at night because it was cooler there. It was impossible to sleep in the station during winter because of the lack of heating. That's when I started hitting the alleyways and underpasses, but they were always taken. And that's how the motel rooms started and the morning after I'd always wander back to the station and Platform Nine. I liked it there, on that bench. It made me feel closer to him, to them. That bench on that platform was my church, a place of sanctuary removed from the rest of the world and my crappy life. I'd sit on it now, but that's not possible. There isn't a Platform Nine anymore. They tore it down a couple of years back to expand the gift shop. Even so, I still come to the station every now and then.

It's Saturday evening in downtown Gotham and I'm sat on my ass on the steps inside the station, people watching. I had a rough night on patrol yesterday. Three guys ganged up on me as we were stopping a robbery and hit me pretty hard for my troubles. Long story short, I got a split lip, a swollen cheek and one hell of a shiner on my right eye. Al wanted me to stay in bed for a few days, but I got restless and took a stroll out here without either of them noticing. It's cool though; I'm not planning to stay out all night. I'll head back before eleven to stop them bitching. Once again, Jason Todd is slumming it. This evening's ensemble is a little more street kid than street-wise punk; nothing really fits. I'm dressed in some beat-up and stained Keds that used to be white, some unflatteringly baggy jeans, a grey T-shirt falling apart at the seams and the coat I had on when I first met Bruce in Crime Alley. The coat was huge on me when I was twelve; today it seems even bigger. Added to this hobo-like attire are the facial scars, slumped posture and miserable expression. I've been here forty minutes and made a buck-sixty in change from people walking past. That wasn't my intention, not by a long shot. I honestly just wanted to people watch.

The reason I'm dressed like this is because my body is seriously bruised from head to toe and wearing loose clothes eases the sting. Since all my other clothes are tailor-made to make me look ridiculously good if more than a little snobbish and pretentious, I didn't have too many options. Fuck it though. I still made it here and now I can just pretend I'm watching a really dull reality show with an ironic title: _Fast Times at Gotham Station_ springs to mind. Everyone's too old, too young or just too damn ugly to stomach for longer than a few minutes at a time; I wish I could change the channel. Of course, then I spot the one moderately attractive teenager GIRL near the hotdog vendor. She's about my age, maybe a little less than my height with shoulder length brown hair and a nice set of…green eyes. And her rack looks great in the sweater and jeans combo she's rocking tonight. I'm guessing she's in a public school, judging from her lack of poise and grace in wolfing her hotdog down like a tramp on chips, and the confident way she chats to a vendor that looks like an extra from Planet of the Apes. Finally someone interesting to creep out with excessive staring. Then she looks at me.

First thing she does is react like everyone else: raises her eyebrows in shock at my face. Then she begins wandering over with her hand in her pocket, again like everybody else. I'm expecting some pennies, maybe a dime or two at the most; she looks the generous type. When she gets within a few feet, I scrap moderately attractive and go for cute/pretty instead. She stops practically right at my feet. She takes her hand out from her pocket and extends it out to me. When she opens it, there's nothing there. Really? How clichéd is it that the pretty girl turns out to be a bitch? Is she gonna laugh now and ride off on her broomstick? I'm about to roll my eyes when she leans forward and reaches behind my ear, giving me the most stunning view of her chest I could ever hope to see. She smells like lavender soap. Just when I think they're going to stroke my face, she pulls back again. In her hand is a dollar bill. I frown.

"Usually people do that trick with a coin." I say. She shrugs.

"This is easier."

"I'm not actually homeless y'know."

"That's a shame. You just lost yourself one dollar." She puts the bill back up her sleeve and smiles at me. I gesture at the small pile of coins between my feet. She nods. "Pretty impressive for someone who's NOT begging in a train station." I casually shrug my shoulders.

"I could do better."

"Yeah, if you didn't have the elephant man's face you could." That's a little brutal…I like it. I smile back.

"But this sells sympathy." She shakes her head.

"It sells pathetic. You fall down the stairs wasted or something?" I raise my eyebrows.

"You think I'm a wino?" She offers me a sly, knowing look before replying.

"I think you like the attention." She sits down next to me without an invitation. "But who are you really?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Are you a prostitute?"

"Are you a rent boy?"

"Why, you think I'm the type?"

"You're definitely _somebody's_ type." She pauses in the banter to ask a serious question. "Does your face hurt?" With that opening, I try my hand.

"Would you kiss it better if I said 'yes'?"

"I don't know. It'd cost you." She says the whole angle in an impression of a sleazy temptress, really hamming it up. I shrug.

"How much?"

"About a buck-sixty." That was good; I didn't even see her count it. I press the issue.

"So you are a prostitute?"

"I'm an opportunist." I fork over the change immediately. She pretends to count it carefully before stuffing it in her pocket. Then she leans in and plants one on my cheek. She's warm. I watch her nod in approval. "That was nice. How'd you do it?" I produce her dollar bill between my thumb and index finger.

"I'm an opportunist too."

"So why haven't you asked me my name yet? You're pretty bad at flirting." That's true enough. I can't flirt like Casanova, but I can run my mouth until I charm her anyway. Plus, I'm full of corny lines, like this comeback.

"And you're just pretty." It's fairly awful stuff, but she blushes a little anyway, probably embarrassed by the poor quality. She feigns confusion.

"So what are you waiting for?" She inquires. I casually shrug.

"For you to ask me out." She scoffs.

"You want ME to ask YOU out on a date?"

"Yeah, isn't that what girls do nowadays? This isn't the 1950s after all." She rolls her eyes, but is still smiling.

"Oh, so you're an expert on equal rights too?"

"I'm an advocate, not an expert. So you gonna ask me or what?" She sighs.

"I really wouldn't know where to start with such a stunning example of humanity as yourself." Her sarcasm is brilliant. Not only that, but she's witty and genuinely amusing; it makes it so much easier to fire quips without getting hopelessly tongue-tied…or slapped. I give her the best lines I've got.

"Ask me what my name is." Her eyes widen in curiosity. She gives me the right answer.

"Why? Is it really embarrassing?" And here's my follow-up.

"Absolutely tragic."

"Okay. So, mysterious, ugly stranger, just what _is_ your name? I'm just _dying_ to know." And, big finish…

"Myron Ballcock." She bursts out laughing.

"YOU'RE TERRIBLE!" And I'm in deep with her. So I drop the veil and give her something to actually work with.

"Okay, my name's not Myron Ballcock. It's Jason Todd." She doesn't exactly look disappointed, more astonished by what I just said. Is she that surprised I have such a boring name or what?

"The boy who used to live in Apartment 17 on Maple Bank?" Is she a stalker? Should I be worried? I frown at her.

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

"I used to live in the same building. I'm Maddie Prince." I'm not at all surprised I have no clue who she is; I was somewhat distracted as a kid living in that tenement, what with my mom snuffing it and my dad being a habitual criminal. I probably wouldn't have noticed a girl if she'd danced naked outside my bedroom window every morning. Obviously, I'd notice something like that now. Obviously I pray for something like that now. I'm absolutely desperate for that now. I mean, can you imagine how it would look…Where am I? Right, Maddie Prince, okay…

"This is kind of embarrassing, but I don't remember you at all." I'm expecting her to be upset by this admission, like teenage-girl-crying-her-eyes-out upset, but she's not. Maddie just nods her head in understanding.

"It's okay. I got told by my folks that your mom was dying and you probably weren't up to playing." She pauses to consider something. "You know, I heard a rumour that you lived on the streets and that your dad was dead. Then I heard this other rumour that you'd been adopted by Bruce Wayne. I never paid much attention to either, but…is any of that stuff true?" Rumours? These facts of my recent past are just rumours to people from my old neighbourhood? So, they didn't read the full four-page spread on Two-Face icing my old man from a few years back? And they didn't read the gossip rags about my adoption by Bruce Wayne a year later? Are they all illiterate or do they just not own TVs?

"Jason?" I must've been off in my own world for a while because she's looking a little concerned. "Which bits of it are true?" It's not worth lying to her, especially since it'll all come out eventually if this meeting goes further than this station. So I tell her the truth.

"All of it's true. My dad was murdered by Two-Face, I lived on the streets and then I was adopted by Bruce Wayne. Now, I'm a billionaire's ward. Life's weird huh?"


	9. Chapter 9

**The Rainbow Vale**

**Author's Note: The flirting continues and Jason struggles with his inner demons. Enjoy.**

I think I might have just scored myself a girlfriend. I'm not THAT arrogant to think the first girl I've met in a few months will just throw herself at me, but judging from the way she managed to swallow the fact I'm pretty much a playboy's Christmas puppy and therefore stupidly rich, she's not the gold-digging skank a lot of other girls in her position would be. And that is a good sign in my books. Maddie Prince seems genuinely interested in me as a person, something that doesn't usually happen when I drop Bruce's name into the conversation. Normally, without him even having to be within a hundred miles of me, all the topics of conversation become about Bruce Wayne. They want to know about his partying, his house and how it feels to have such an 'exceptional' man as my guardian. My interests get the cold shoulder. But Maddie's different; she couldn't care less about the big guy right now and neither could I. For once,_ I'm_ the centre of attention. There's definitely something going on between us and I love it. At the moment we're in a coffee shop round the corner from the station, sharing a pot of black coffee and chatting about nothing in particular.

Because of the heating in this place, I've taken off my coat. Although this tells her immediately I'm in fantastic, unbelievable shape, it also shows her some more of my bruises; blocking hard hits with your forearms for hours really smarts. She naturally asks how I got so banged up and I explain it all away on Mixed Martial Arts sparring sessions. It's close enough to the truth for her to accept it. I'm pretty sure she was leaning towards domestic abuse before that explanation, something nobody needs, least of all Bruce.

"So, do you get your ass kicked a lot when you're sparring?" She asks still not sounding totally convinced I'm telling the truth. Of course, the truth is that I don't really ever get my ass well and truly kicked on the streets. Ever since I rolled out of training and graduated to the mantle, nobody's ever floored me and got me to stay there, not once. Meanwhile I've put down more former professional boxers, thugs and hard-core tough guys than there are stars in the damn sky. If twenty guys kicked off with me right now, in this coffee shop, I could take them all. But I'm not going to tell Maddie that. It wouldn't impress her anyway. I can tell she's not into the chest-beating histrionics of macho men. So I give her a little humility.

"Sometimes I get my ass kicked, sometimes I kick theirs. It just depends how lucky you get on the night."

"So, what's the worst injury you've ever had from sparring?" My worst injury as Robin was actually a collection of twelve. I suffered two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a broken nose, a fractured wrist, two broken fingers, three individual stab wounds, a partially fractured orbital socket and a concussion. And I still won. I dial it back and point to my face. Maddie raises her eyebrows and looks impressed.

"Pretty good effort. And the worst you've done to someone else?"

"I broke someone's nose once." Oh, and four of his ribs, and his jaw, knocked out two of his teeth, crushed his hand and traumatised his groin…repeatedly. "But it was an accident and I apologized." Like hell I did. I think I dared him to try and rape anyone in that condition and then planted him out cold. She likes that I claim it was an accident. She still doesn't believe me. She's sharp.

"You're not built to cause accidents, Jason. What happened, you go on roids or something? You used to be so skinny."

"I got a personal trainer. Well, Bruce hired me a personal trainer and they put me on a diet to get big."

"If only all of us could be so lucky."

"Ah, you're not that fat." Thank Christ she knows I'm joking about it; I don't need to turn another beautiful girl into a bulimic. She just rolls her eyes, smiles reluctantly and changes topic.

"So do you love it, being rich?" She asks me without any of the usual excitement other people show. I think Maddie understands that money means nothing where dead parents are concerned. I indicate my clothes and give her a half-hearted smile.

"What do you think?"

"I knew you wouldn't. Why else would you be hanging around train stations dressed like a hobo if you've got a mansion to go back to?" I guess it's that obvious to other people how much I hate the label of being privileged and wealthy. Maddie also knows there's more to it than meets the eye; I'm not just an ungrateful hypocrite with a low opinion of the richer members of this city but am more than willing to take their hand-outs. She grins at me. "But I bet you scrub up really well in your designer wardrobe." Oh, the flirting's being ratcheted up yet again. The funniest part of all this is that I guarantee I'm way more nervous than she is.

I haven't been with many people. Actually, scratch that; I've _only_ been with TWO people in my whole life and one of them is Maddie. And I haven't actually closed the deal with her yet so she probably doesn't count. The other girl, Sarah, was my first. I lost my virginity back when I was fourteen. I was with Sarah for exactly six weeks and had sex with her exactly four times. When she figured out I couldn't get emotionally involved how she wanted me to be, Sarah just bailed on me. No goodbye, no tears and I'm guessing absolutely no regrets.

Emotionally involved means being able to feel a certain way about someone, especially when you're supposed to be romantically linked with them and I couldn't do it. And for once, my personality defects are nothing to do with Bruce or his training. Even though I liked Sarah, the sex was meaningless. It wasn't euphoric or intense or incredible or any of those things that make life and youth taste sweet; it was cold and I felt nothing you're supposed to feel afterwards. It was empty and hollow to me, a perfect reflection of what I'd taken in all those motel rooms and I felt closed off and detached from both it and her in exactly the same way as I did when I was twelve.

When I was a real little kid, my mom used to tell me bedtime stories. She did the standard repertoire of Goldilocks, pigs, wolves, girls with a serious thing for red and grandmas and of course dragons. I hated all that shit. So she made up her own to keep me interested. My favourite was one about a boy who lives in the city and wants to escape. One night, he sees a rainbow-striped cat and follows it to another land calls The Rainbow Vale. She described it as the happiest, most beautiful and lively place in the whole universe, populated by the most amazing and outlandish creatures. And the boy is very happy there, but knows he has to go back because of his parents. So he makes a choice between Rainbow Vale and the real world and he chooses the real world. I thought he was crazy, but very brave to turn down paradise. I pretty much did the same thing. I stopped being a kid and accepted reality. But, when it came to those motel rooms years later, I needed to escape again.

To cope with being raped for money took every shred of mental fortitude and courage I had. I had to convince myself that I didn't care, that it was just a business transaction and that my body was just a tool to close a deal and do a job. Then I remembered I was twelve years old and scared shitless of having some guy shove his dick up my ass. So I took a different tact and pretended I was in The Rainbow Vale and untouchable from the real world. And it worked. I took everything they had to give and I blocked it out. All the pain and the degradation, the threat of tears and the fear of rupturing something if it got rough, I beat it all down. I beat it down so bad it could only surface every few months instead of every moment of my life. All thanks to my mom and her fairy tales.

But, it turns out I trained my mind to switch off too well. With Sarah, I couldn't even pretend like I was enjoying it. I couldn't even muster a single groan of satisfaction at the act, before, during or after. And I hated doing that because she was so patient with me. It just made it worse when she left that I acted like she'd never existed at all. I haven't done anything but flirt with girls since then and it's only ever innocent at that. I'm afraid of doing it again. It's always at the back of my mind, every time I even see a girl. And beating criminals half to death every night without breaking a sweat or batting an eyelid doesn't help matters. It doesn't make me feel any better or worse about myself; it's just another job, another means to an end. I haven't enjoyed it for almost a year.

So right now, I'm scared of hurting her and of burying myself deeper inside my own body. When this relationship fails, not if but when, the fallout is going to be bad. I've taken the innocent flirting routine I developed as far as it can go without becoming more. This is the jump-off point for me, the time I make my excuses and leave. I don't want to shut myself down any further. I don't want to quit on women altogether, because of what I had to do to survive on the streets fucked me up for life, but I'm running short on options. Maddie's waiting for an answer to her theory. Do I scrub up well?

_This isn't for us, Jay-Jay. If the world wanted us to be happy, we'd have seen something by now, ANYTHING. Romance isn't for us, it's just not. So get your ass up and walk away NOW, save yourself from falling any deeper into the abyss._ All my internal defence mechanisms, the parts of my mind that keep me alive and functioning are screaming for me to go. They want me to sever this connection with another human being and run back to my crappy, lonesome life with a human statue and friendly butler as my sole companions. Maybe Jason Todd is done running. Maybe he's tired of the effort it takes to cut everyone off and keep himself safe. Maybe he wants to try…even if he fails spectacularly. Maybe, the reward is finally worth the risk, letting someone in is worth tempting fate and losing everything…

_Don't be a fucking moron, Jay-Jay! YOU CAN'T WIN HERE! WALK THE FUCK AWAY! WALK THE…_

"Maybe I can take you on a proper date and you can find out for yourself how well I scrub up." I say to take a flying leap into the unknown with my eyes closed; so what else is new? Maddie smiles back.

"I'd like that, Mr Billionaire; I'd like that very much."

Jesus, I'm confused; is this reality or have I just strayed back into the Vale? I'm just going to believe this is happening. This is going to be interesting…


	10. Chapter 10

**Driving Seat**

**Author's Note: This is a long chapter, one I admit I got carried away with. After this installment, we have the conclusion to this chapter's ending, Jason's date with Maddie and the immediate fallout surrounding it. Hope you enjoy.**

I arranged to pick Maddie up from her home in the suburbs in three days time for our date. I can't stop thinking about her. And I'm glad. It gives me the motivation to get my ass out of bed on Sunday for more than lunch and a horrible workout in which I'll more than likely throw it all up anyway. As I stroll into the kitchen, dressed in nothing but my boxers, Al notices me immediately and does a classic double-take to confirm I am really there.

"Master Jason! Sir, what are you doing up at this hour? Why, it's…" He looks up from the eggs he's poaching to regard the wall clock, "It's barely after nine! Normally you don't stir until at least midday." Just so you know, he is stunned, but not stunned enough to stop being sarcastic and witty in his tone of voice. And the double-take was part of his routine; this man is always a performer. I roll my eyes.

"I'm lazy; I get it, thanks for reminding me, moving on…" I move in closer until I'm standing right next to him, "I need your advice on some things. Indulge me?" Al returns to his eggs and smiles.

"Always, Sir. How can I help?"

"I've got a date." This announcement forces a genuine look of surprise from the old man. He silently places the poached eggs on a plate alongside some baked beans and whole wheat toast points, slides it across to me, turns off the stove and regards me with a weird expression. It looks oddly like pride.

"That's marvellous news. Sit down and tell me all about her." His hand is on my shoulder and already guiding me to the breakfast bar stool. I sit down and regard the plate as he grabs some cutlery.

"Isn't this Bruce's breakfast?" I say as Al hands me a knife and fork before sitting down himself.

"Master Bruce is preoccupied. I can prepare him something in a short while." The old man almost sounds excited right now. I have to smile; Al really does have a heart of gold because I'm about to yammer on for the next hour. And that's what I do. I tell him about sitting in the station, meeting Maddie and our little chat in the coffee shop. And then I go on to talk about how she looks, how she smells, how she laughs and everything in between. I chat about her moving from Park Row to Upper-West Gotham when her dad got a job in an accountancy firm and how she goes to a nice-sounding, academic high school near Gotham Heights. Al just listens and listens. He never interrupts my flow of one-way traffic and seems really interested in what I've got to say. He can tell I'm happy and I think that's why his eyes light up every now and then as I think of something else to say about Maddie. Mercifully, I stop.

"Miss Prince sounds wonderful, Master Jason." Al says taking away the empty plate I somehow managed to create during my ode to Maddie and putting it in the sink. I watch him move over to the medicine cabinet, "But surely a strapping young man such as yourself does not require dating advice from the likes of me." He comes back over with some more anti-inflammatories and an ice pack for my cheek.

"I think that's obvious if I charmed her looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame, Al." I reply knocking back the pills before pressing the ice pack against my face. The old man smirks.

"Oh yes, Sir, clearly. So in what way can I assist you?" He's studying the bruising on my torso and looking pleased with their progress. He never stops being a doctor, even in situations like this.

"I need suggestions on where to go and what to wear."

"I don't want to be viewed as meddlesome, Master Jason." That is a lie and a bad one at that. This man secretly runs Bruce's social life for him. And, when I need it, he runs mine too. The truth is that both of us would be lost without Al to virtually hold our hands and guide us through this bizarre world of privilege; there's just too many fucking forks and French shirts for any man to cope with alone.

"Al, you and I both know that I'm a sweat pants and vest kind of guy. You practically dress me for all the public dinners and parties Bruce lets me tag along to; you know how I should dress for this date already, but I don't. Tell me please?"

"It all rather depends on where you plan to go."

"So, where am I going?" Al looks irritated with my lack of effort.

"Master Jason, really…"

"Come on, Al; first date with a girl that you want to impress, where would YOU take her?"

"Well, if you really want to impress her, might I suggest…"

"You're going to say 'romantic candlelit dinner', aren't you?" Al momentarily narrows his eyes at my interruption before adopting a sunnier disposition.

"Oh, heavens no, Sir! Romantic candlelit scenarios are reserved for when you are properly courting one another. But I was thinking a nice meal in a restaurant would be a good starting point." You spent decades making up that plan, Al? Dinner in a fancy restaurant is the answer? Come on…I expect laziness of myself, but not from you. I sigh and tell him as much.

"You must have better than that. That's like everyone's plan for a date."

"Try the ice-rink, then dinner." We both look to the doorway and find Bruce stood there in his dressing gown. The big guy looks strangely well rested. How long has he been standing there? Did he see me eat his breakfast or, even worse, did he hear me tell Al about Maddie's awesome rack? Judging from the smile on his face, he heard enough. Great. "Good morning Alfred. Can I get some eggs and toast please?" Al inclines his head and gets up to begin preparations.

"Certainly, Sir. I shan't be a moment." Bruce strides across the floor and briefly strokes my hair. It's starting to feel less alien every time he does it. Since the nightmare, the count's hit about ten. That means it's just a little less than creepy.

"Morning, Jason. I am to take it you had a nice time last night then?" He takes Al's vacant seat beside me.

"Are you pissed at me for not staying in bed like Al told me to?"

"It will probably come as no surprise that I am, but it seemed oddly beneficial for your temperament so I have decided to overlook it." He informs me, pouring himself a cup of black coffee from the kettle.

"Very gracious of you." I tell him as he takes a sip.

"I think so." He reaches over and moves the ice pack away to examine my face. "It's looking better already." I press it back on my cheek.

"Thanks. You really think she'd be impressed with ice-skating?" Bruce takes another sip and shrugs.

"I don't see why not. You're guaranteed to be close to her the whole time. Do you not like the idea?"

"No, it's good. I just didn't expect it to come from your mouth." The big guy raises an eyebrow at the insinuation he's no good with the ladies. When he speaks though, he doesn't sound indignant, just coolly confident about the whole thing.

"I've done my share of dating, Jason." That's an understatement. Bruce may be a grim, unrelenting monster of the night, but his back catalogue reads like a countdown of the top one hundred most desirable women of modern times. I privately loathe and respect his talents for seduction at the same time, although hell would freeze over and thaw back out again before I'd ever admit a thing to him. I mean, this man gets routinely laid for APPEARANCE'S sake, nothing else but to keep up the pretence; he rarely feels any true connection with these women. But this isn't about sex, this is about finding a way in and he's pretty good at that too. So I cut to the chase.

"Then you know the importance of making a first impression and arriving in style, right?"

"Where are you leading with this?"

"I want to get my driver's licence and drive her round in my Spyder." Even though I've only got my provisional licence, I'm capable of driving any vehicle and piloting any small aircraft and to the highest standard imaginable. Bruce made sure of that last part, VERY fucking sure. I would ace any civilian driving test in the whole world and the big man knows it. That's not the problem. The problem is the Spyder.

The Spyder is a replica of the Porsche 550 Spyder, a racing car made famous by James Dean, who crashed his and killed himself in the process. Dean called his 'Little Bastard', so in honour of that, mine's called 'Little Brat'. It was meant to be Little Bastard's Son', but Al convinced me to change it before Bruce caught wind of it. It wasn't a present either; I had to build the fucking thing up from nothing but a rusted chassis and a cracked engine block so the big guy could evaluate my auto mechanical knowledge and practical expertise during 'further' or 'advanced' training. I wasn't even allowed to drive it around the grounds afterwards, even though I spent close to eighteen months putting it together. He argued that if it killed a twenty-three year-old movie and amateur racing star, then it would wipe out a fourteen-year-old hothead in less time than it takes for it to climb to one-hundred miles per hour. That would be less than twenty seconds. I still drove it around a few times anyway. It's MY car. And it's the only thing I've ever wanted to drive.

"I see. You'll have to take a hit on your allowance to pay me back some of the insurance costs, a few months at least." How tight-ass can a billionaire really get? He's got enough money in his bank account to flood an Olympic-sized swimming pool and he's going to take my lousy two hundred dollar monthly allowance to pay for my car insurance? It'll cost hundreds of thousands to get me legally behind the wheel. Unfortunately, this is him being as nice as he can be without doing a Wicked Witch of the West and melting into a pile of sludge. So I accept it with a nod.

"And for the date?" I inquire.

"I'll give you enough to cover the costs of the skating and the dinner."

"So, two hundred bucks?" Bruce drains his mug before answering.

"Maybe two hundred and fifty, just to be on the safe side." There won't be any helicopter rides or an overnight stay in Madrid then, just the basic package. That's cool. At least he hasn't said 'no' to anything yet. That means today he likes me…or at least feels guilty enough about something he's done to me to try and be nice. Either way, I'm on his mind. It's nice to have someone like him think of me like that. Hopefully Maddie is thinking of me right now too. Suddenly, Bruce's hand is underneath my chin and he's looking at me with welcoming eyes for once. "She's got a hold on you, huh?" He says with a smirk, "You haven't said anything for almost five minutes." I'm still not crazy about him being so tactile (Al is an awesome alternative to a thesaurus, although he's harder to carry around) with me. He is trying harder to reach out to me though. I pull my head away from his hand slowly. Before, I would've reflexively jerked it back before he had a chance to blink and given myself whiplash.

"Did you hear me recite _War and Peace_ about her just now?" Bruce nods taking his hand back.

"I got the cliff notes." He considers. "I know someone who's a certified driving instructor. He owes me a favour and it's possible I could get him to test you today and put in the paperwork to the DMV to be processed tomorrow. Or you could just wait until tomorrow and Alfred can get you down to a testing station or something." Most people would have to wait for things like this. It's the last day of the weekend, nobody in their right mind is going to want to do anything like work today, least of all driving instructors, but Bruce knows SOMEBODY. And this somebody owes him a favour, him and half of Gotham society. These, ladies and gentleman, are the inherent advantages of having a billionaire playboy who is also a colossal philanthropist and do-gooder…at least the public think so anyway.

"If I did it today, how soon could I get my licence and insurance papers sorted?" Bruce takes another moment to mull over the question as Al puts down a plate of eggs and toast for him. He inclines his head to the old guy without looking up.

"Probably before the end of the working day on Monday, Tuesday morning latest." He takes a bite of his breakfast before looking up for my reaction. What do you expect me to say, Bruce?

"Get him down here, please."

It's three hours later and I'm trussed up in a pair of black slacks, a white shirt and a grey, lamb's wool sweater standing by my Spyder and waiting for the instructor. I'm not nervous or sweating or even entertaining the slight possibility I could fail the exam; I'm just embarrassed that I look like some preppy rich boy who got taught a lesson. Al insisted on combing my hair and Bruce insisted I present myself in formal attire for his 'friend'. The big man said if I want my licence, I will do it looking like I care what other people think of me. I bet this guy, Mr Joules, is an absolute bastard to his other students, but will practically bend over backwards for Bruce to pass me. He'll be my friend, try to start small talk and generally be a colossal kiss-ass. I see him coming from a mile away. The smuck pulls up alongside my Porsche in a new Audi TT with a silver finish; he's trying to make me think he's good enough to take me through the test, that he belongs in this world of privilege. He doesn't know I think wealth is a bad joke and choked with too much pretentious bullshit. I still want my licence though. So I meet his wave with a smile when he gets out the car.

He's a big man, maybe as big as six-five and definitely weighs close to three-hundred pounds, just the kind of dimensions a lot of Gotham's criminals would kill for. He's a little round in the face and long in the tooth, judging by the bad comb-over job on his virtually bald head and the iron-grey hue of what's left. He's dressed in a neat, but cheap three-piece suit, a charcoal number with a light-blue tie while his footwear is definitely a special from Best Buy; slip-on black shoes with a bad gloss finish. I note his fake Rolex watch and comparatively modest silver wedding ring as he adjusts his grip on the clipboard he's carrying. He beams at me, his dark green eyes communicating nothing but polite surprise.

"'Allo lad, Martin Joules is me name and a'll be y' driving examiner t'day. You're Jason, right?" Jesus; this guy's from Yorkshire in England, DEEP Yorkshire. What's he doing in Gotham? "Either speak lad or shake me hand, either'll do." I do both. He's got a strong grip.

"You're from Yorkshire."

"Aye, that's right, 'uddersfield in Yorkshire. I've heard you were a smart lad, but I never heard you was a keen boxer as well; that's a nice shiner you got yourself there." He laughs pointing to my eye, "He must've hit like a bloody truck to do that." Okay…so this guy obviously isn't going to handle me with kid gloves or keep his opinions to himself, not a Yorkshireman's style; they're loud and brash at funerals. I've already decided I like him. That's why I smile.

"Yeah, but he went down like a sack of shit when I tagged him back." And he's still in a coma. Martin just laughs before clapping me on the back. I nearly shriek because of the bruises.

"So, an 'ardcase as well, eh? And you've got some snazzy trainers on your feet there to boot!" He says gesturing at my vintage Air Jordans that both my 'parents' told me explicitly _not_ to wear for this. He crouches down to get a better view. "My grandson's been chopping at me to get him some monstrosities like these. My lad lives back 'ome in York with his family and he can't get shoes like these over there. So I try to bring 'em back something unique from across the pond, y'know." He stands back up. "Anyway, enough chewing your ear off already! You want your driving licence, so let's get it sorted shall we?" I shrug my shoulders.

"Buckle up."

Ninety minutes later, Martin gives me a blunt evaluation of my driving skills as we pull back up in the grounds. "Your driving style gives me a pissing heart attack!" But… "But, you still somehow managed to pass without a single mistake, it's bloody baffling stuff!" He hands over a copy of his exam sheet; nothing but ticks and an undeniable pass. Job done. Martin's talking about my acceleration at stop signs, turns and my overtaking on freeways; I squeeze through gaps a bike rider would struggle with. Still safe though. I shrug my shoulders.

"I'm not going to have a lawsuit on my hands if you croak after this, am I Martin?" I say with a lethargic sigh. The big man rolls his eyes at my sarcasm but then smiles.

"A'll go quietly, lad, not one to kick up a fuss."

"What do you owe Bruce a favour for anyway? One of your students crash into his limo or something?" He laughs at the suggestion.

"I'd owe him more than a favour for that, Jay! Nah, it were me wife. She was dying of cancer and Mr Wayne was nice enough to arrange an all-expenses paid trip for us to Paris through his charity foundation. It made her so happy, y'know? She died only a couple of months after that, but she went out with a smile on her face." Even though just speaking about something like that must really hurt him, Martin's still smiling and sunny about the whole thing. The man's got a positive outlook, no question. So I consider.

"Is your grandson about my age?"

"Yeah, a little older though; he's seventeen."

"How big are his feet?" Martin scoffs, already seeing where I'm going with this line of questioning.

"Bigger than yours, lad." I roll my eyes. Did he raise his eyebrows with some thinly veiled jibe at my manhood? I don't care if he's got a bigger dick than me; I'm trying to be nice here.

"Gimme a size, Martin, not a trump card."

"43." I pull off my sneakers.

"I always get sneakers a size bigger than my feet. These are 43s. You can take 'em for your grandson if you want." Now the man looks indignant and a little guilty.

"I am still getting paid for this, Jay. I can buy him some shoes me self."

"Yeah, two things with that, Marty; one, these are Air Jordans Mark ONE, produced in 1985 so, unless you want to fork out a bank loan for these bad boys on eBay, you're out of luck. And two, they're MY sneakers; one day I'll be famous and you'll be able to trade these for a retirement in Hawaii." Martin laughs at what I think is my ridiculous confidence levels before folding his arms and offering me a hard stare.

"What makes you think I want t' go t' bloody Hawaii?"

"Hula girls are crazy about English guys." He relieves me of my sneakers. Jason Todd should've been a salesman; I've have their eyes out in five minutes flat, no doubt. Martin nods at me in nothing but sincere appreciation.

"He'll love these." The man remarks, putting them to one side. He pats me gently on the shoulder. "You're a good lad, Jay. He's lucky to have you, y'know, Mr Wayne. He might not see that now, but when you've gone away, he'll see it then." He sighs longingly, "All parents see it eventually. Congratulations on passing your driving test." He extends his hand out for me to shake. I accept it without any hesitation.

"See you round, Marty."

"Aye, 'opefully. Go give him the good news, eh?"

After Martin drives off in the same way he came, I dig my dress shoes from the trunk and take a wander up to the house. I find Bruce exercising in the gym. The big guy is swinging on the rings with the grace and fluidity of a man half his size. He spots me when he performs an iron cross. He says nothing and I hold up the exam sheet. Even suspended ten feet off the ground and fifteen feet away from where I'm standing, Bruce still manages to acknowledge that it's a pass. He nods in satisfaction before dismounting from the rings with three twists and a somersault. He grabs a towel to dab at some non-existent sweat as he approaches me.

"How does it feel for it to be official?" He asks drawing level with me. I nod.

"Good."

"And you like the examiner I got for you?"

"Yeah, he was nice."

"Good. I was confident his personality would match up with yours. Other examiners wouldn't display the same patience with you."

"Why might that be?"

"Because you're a sarcastic, teenage brat." I roll my eyes at him. He's probably right though; I rub up authority figures the wrong way. That's why I'm not in a mainstream school; because detention and getting kicked out of class would become the hallmarks of my academic career. Al has infinitely more patience and time for my bad habits. In fact, he's the only reason I possess the equivalent of a 4.0 grade point average across every subject possibly taught in the curriculum. Without him, I'd barely scrape a D.

"And you love me for it." I fire back.

"Love's rather a strong word for it, Jason." He offers teasingly.

"Whatever, big man. Marty says I can pick up my licence tomorrow, special delivery. Can you take me down in the Spyder? I'll drive you back." He doesn't look crazy about the idea. This becomes clear when he tries to palm me off with the usual excuses.

"I'm rather busy at work tomorrow, Jason."

"So take a day off."

"I'm sure Alfred would be more than willing to…"

"No, thanks. Unless you want to come home to a corpse instead of a butler, you'll take me."

"Jason…"

"Please Bruce. This is important to me. And it's important that you come too. Most dads would love to be there when their kid picks up his licence; it's a big deal."

"I thought you made it very clear that I was not your father, Jason, or ever would be." Oh what a surprise; Bruce being difficult. I go the soft route.

"Do you love me, Bruce?"

"I think we both know the answer to that."

"Right and are you proud of me for passing my exam?"

"Yes, of course I am."

"So you'll come right? You'll take me?"

"You promise to be careful on the way back? I don't want history to repeat itself." He's referring to James Dean's monumental crash on the road in '55. He wants a guarantee I won't just hammer down the gas pedal and try my luck on sharp bends. I want him to be impressed, not paralysed from the neck down; from the neck up is enough already. I shrug.

"I'll pinkie swear with you if it'll make you feel better."

"No jokes, please. Can I trust you to be safe?" I scoff at the notion that I am unsafe in any way. I'm reckless NOT unsafe. In my mind there's a difference. Although I can't tell you what that difference is just this second, there's definitely one. Definitely. So I go all out.

"I didn't get my licence to kill myself, Bruce! I did to score a girlfriend! Why else would I dress like a reject from a polo pony club? I just want to impress her on Tuesday, let's not turn this into a death wish or anything!" He seems to respond to this.

"Alright, fine. You're doing this to impress Miss Prince, fair enough. As long as you take it easy, I'll go with you tomorrow. I'll call in at work in the afternoon." I decide to push my luck again.

"No, you can't." I watch his whole body involuntarily tense, his muscles bulge and flex into obscene dimensions when he clenches his fists. He practically snaps his response.

"Excuse me?"

"I need you to help me modify the Porsche tomorrow afternoon. You can't go to work." He looks unbelievably huge and scary right now. But I've faced down bigger men and won. I stand my ground as he tries to compose himself.

"Jason, I do think you're starting to test my patience now. What modifications are you planning to make?"

"Just cosmetic. I want a new paint job, windscreen, tyres, and a stereo putting in." He glares at me.

"Take another car." I shake my head resolutely.

"No, it has to be the Spyder."

"Why? I've got a modified 550 in the garage you can use. It has all those features."

"But it's not mine."

"I can make it yours."

"No, I didn't build it, I don't want it." He sighs, the irritation he's currently feeling laces every word.

"I gave you the option of adding extra features to the car during the initial build. You wanted to construct an exact replica of Dean's car. It's your own fault."

"Just give up your time for this one thing, Bruce. I don't ask the Earth of you."

"It could take all day."

"So let's start _today_." He still doesn't look willing. I try a different line. "I'd do it myself, but I'm still not feeling too hot and, as good as Al is, he sucks at welding and electronic installation; remember that alarm system he installed? It kept us awake for _four_ days." That was bad. Al set an override password for the system, but he couldn't remember what it was. Since the system was for the cave, we couldn't hire out an IT expert to fix it; we had to guess what the password was…for hours. Eventually, I sussed it out; it was _EastwoodofEden_. Why? I don't even know. The film title is _East of Eden_ and Clint Eastwood isn't even in it; James Dean is.

"Why are you pushing so hard?"

"Because when you're not saying 'no' and being a grim asshole, you're someone I actually want to spend time with, as loony as it may sound." I yank off my sweater. "And you know for a fact you need someone, hell, you need ANYONE to challenge you or you'll get complacent. _Complacency is the beginning of an individual's last successful days,_ isn't that what you're always saying?" I start unbuttoning my shirt. "So how about we make a deal; if I beat you in three rounds of sparring, you stay home tomorrow. If you beat me, I'll let you make up your own mind." I take off the shirt to reveal the sparring gear I'm wearing underneath. I kick off my shoes and let my pants drop to show my flame streaked boxing shorts. Bruce looks curious.

"Was this your plan all along, Jason?" He inquires as I duck behind the ring and pull out my sports bag. I perch myself on the edge and begin putting on my boots.

"No, this was my _back-up_ plan all along. Isn't that always what happens when diplomacy with stubborn people fails, we resort to fists?" I fish out my gloves and headgear.

"Sometimes. But sometimes picking fights with those people backfires. The aggressor isn't always automatically the strongest in such a confrontation." Bruce is trying to say, albeit with some subtlety that I'm still too injured to go toe-to-toe with him at our level of competition; we pull NO punches or hold anything back. Even Batman underestimates the kid.

"If you're scared a kid who's been severely spanked by some very bad men is going to kick your ass all over the ring, just give in now. Last chance." I say rolling under the ropes and into the centre of the ring, headgear on, gloves on and mouth guard in hand. For a split second, I'm really hoping he'll just let me have my own way, but then he climbs on the apron and steps through the ropes. His gloves always hang on his corner's post, along with his mouth guard and headgear.

"Three rounds, Jason. You lose, I go to work tomorrow, end of story." I've got to admit, as far as plans go, this is pretty stupid. I struggle to contain Bruce when in peak physical condition and right now I'm probably operating at seventy-five per cent. My seventy-five per cent is most guys' hundred per cent and, against pretty much everyone else in the world I could still beat them convincingly. But not Bruce. Even if I was in perfect shape, the best I usually manage is a draw. Plus there's my face; it's still healing and not up to further punishment. And then my body is a soft target too with all the bruising. Fuck, I'm screwed. Easy Jay-Jay; think of Maddie and how you want to impress her; you need his help. He's suited up and ready now. He puts in his mouth guard and reaches over to set the timer. He looks at me one last time to make sure this is what I want. I dare him to not push the ENTER button and call it off. He pushes the button.

"_Start of Round One…" _ The computer's voice announces over the intercom. The bell rings and we're off…


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Incomplete but felt like publishing what I have so far. The remainder, i.e. Jason's date with Maddie, will be published sometime next week and will consist of additional 2,000 words to this chapter. Enjoy.**

**Happy Endings**

I wake up the next morning feeling too sore and beat-up to even try moving. I peel my face off the pillow and make a play for getting up onto an elbow. My shoulder groans with the effort but manages to hold steady. There's a timely knock at my door followed by the sight of Al letting himself in, a tray of assorted goodies already in hand. He looks at me and sighs.

"I am to take it you lost the fight, Master Jason? You didn't appear for dinner last night, a practice I have seldom heard of from a young man with an appetite as ravenous as you." He says wandering close to the bedside table to set down the tray. I wince in wiping a hand down my face.

"Didn't he tell you what happened?" I ask.

"It was very odd at dinner last night, Sir. Master Bruce proved even more uncommunicative than usual, meaning he was mute. He mentioned nothing of the fight, but his appearance implied he took little to no damage. Take these, Sir and press the ice-pack against your eye. Breakfast will be served in one hour, a meal I expect you to show up to. Would you care to explain what transpired?" He says handing me some pink pills and the ice-pack. I swallow the pills and then press the pack against my face with the same hand. I'm not in the mood to move.

"The short story is I won. The counter argument is I cheated to do so. He doesn't think I deserve his company today because in his mind, I cheated." The old man raises an eyebrow at me.

"Did you?"

"Of course I did. I'm banged-up and nowhere near healed enough to go toe-to-toe with him so I had to cheat if I wanted to win."

"And how did you accomplish this feat?"

"I went down to a phantom punch, after falling behind on the score cards in the first two rounds, near to the end of the time limit in the final round. He came in close to check I was alright and I nailed him with four good shots before he could counter. The bell sounded and I won by a single point overall."

"Yes, that does sound like a very underhanded tactic in a fight _you _wanted to engage in."

"Yeah, because I'm gonna go ahead and rely on fair sportsmanship to win dates with girls. Pretty simple stuff, Al, I wanted to go out with Maddie. I wanted the date to be perfect and, in order for that to be a reality, I needed the car to be perfect too and for that, I need Bruce to help me. So I did what I had to, to make sure that was the outcome."

"And your absence from dinner?"

"After the fight I felt like I'd been repeatedly hit by a train for nine minutes. I needed to go lie down." Al sits down next to me, placing a hand on my back and one on my sternum to gently rotate me onto my back. Then he helps me sit up and begins to examine my upper body and face for fresh bruises. I make 'ow' noises all the way through the movement.

"I see. Well, in future, Master Jason, I would advise you against placing foolhardy bets on the outcome of a contest you must cheat to win at. You seem to have protected your face quite well; there's very little swelling of any sort except for what was already present." He replies before a prod on my ribs yields a stifled cry, "But I'm afraid you are now in possession of some very bruised ribs." I smirk.

"So what else is new? Haven't broken anything though, right?" Al gives me a sigh, relieving me of my ice-pack and placing it firmly against my aching ribs. The cold feels sooo good right now.

"Fortunately it would appear Master Bruce's punches were meant to sting, not to break." What's that, Al?

"Are you saying he held back?"

"It is more than likely, Sir, otherwise the chances are you would be confined to bed for the foreseeable future, not the next few hours. I will give you something for the pain, but do not exert yourself too much in its temporary absence. Understand?" He checks taking my hand and replacing his with it on the ice-pack. I grin at him.

"Yes, Mom."

"Do not call me that. I would never wish such a burden on anyone, least of all myself." Al doesn't want to be my mommy, but he is. He's Bruce's mommy as well. And both of us are lucky to have such a strong, maternal figure to look up to and be inspired by. Al knows that. If the job weren't so stressful, he'd probably be proud of the title, but it is THAT stressful. Anybody else would've lost their mind years ago in the same position, but Al just soldiers on. Have to admire him for that; god knows I couldn't do it. "I imagine you plan to spend the next few hours trying to convince him to honour a bet he has every right to refuse?"

"I don't know why you didn't take up a career as a mind-reading quack, Al; you would've made big bucks with your act." He narrows his eyes at me and smiles.

"While I appreciate your confidence, Sir, I do fear that, were I to pursue such a glamorous profession, not everybody's minds would prove as easy to read as yours and Master Bruce's." Oh yes, Al is in a fun mood this morning; he'll play with me. I feed him the necessary line.

"You saying I've got a one-track mind, Al?" The old man's eyes light up and he raises an eyebrow.

"Shall we test it? I'm going to read your mind, Sir, tell me if I'm right." He closes his hands round the outside of my head and wiggles his fingers in the most mystic way you can before humming loudly. "Yes, the voices are speaking to me, Sir…" He tells me with absolute conviction, "They are telling me you…you are thinking of someone whose first name begins with an M. Does that mean anything to you? Maybe a girl, yes definitely a girl, perhaps a Marjorie…Maleficent…Mallory…Maddie…"

"Yes! I DO know a girl called Maddie! What else can you tell me?" I say feigning astonishment. Al shakes his head, acting like he's struggling against some invisible force.

"It's a little unclear, Sir, I think the voices are saying, yes, they're telling me she's out of your league…" I shove him playfully, using as little strength as possible to avoid actually hurting him. He takes it in good spirits.

"That's the method mediums use to 'communicate' with dead people, Al, not read people's minds." I point out, sensing I've left the door open for a witty retort.

"Well I am communicating with a _dead_ stupid person after all, Master Jason. It seemed appropriate." Yeah, there it is, wit in its highest form…coming out of Al's mouth. I take it like a man and smile in appreciation at the genius of such a line. I'll forgo the sarcastic clapping until my ribs stop yelling at me.

"Do you think he'll bite, Al?" I inquire seriously about Bruce. Al puts a supportive hand on my shoulder.

"I'm certain you will try your best to make him, Sir. All I can say is good luck in your efforts."

I come across the big man in the library some thirty minutes later. Instead of my usual peep show – just my boxers – I'm wearing all the necessary clothes for polite society; shirt, slacks and sneakers with the whole ensemble tied together by a charming dark red sweater I absolutely hate. Hopefully he notices how uncomfortable I am wearing this crud and gets some satisfaction. He's dressed too…for work. Today he's sporting a dark suit, white shirt and blue tie with Italian loafers and a silver Rolex watch. He looks like a businessman today and a very serious, uptight one at that. Somehow I think he's decided to go to work instead of hang out with me. Still, I might as well try…

"So, you ready to drive me down to the DMV?" I say with a smile I try to make look hopeful. He closes the book he was reading and regards me with a withering stare. He's really not in the mood for me today. "You're not seriously pissed at me, are you, big guy?"

"I'm surprised you've found the courage to show your face after hiding in your room yesterday evening." He sounds bitter. I shrug my shoulders.

"And I'm surprised you held back yesterday evening. Why'd you pull your punches?"

"I did not want to injure you given that your first date in over two years was only three days away, regardless of the outcome. It would be a little unfair. Despite my conduct you still felt the need to taint the competition."

"What can I say? People wanting to get into a girl's panties do stupid things." Bruce glares at me.

"Is that all this is about?"

"No, of course not. I just really wanted you to stay and help me. But it looks like you've made up your mind already."

"Yes, I have." His eyes move away from me as he turns to face the portrait of his parents hanging over the fireplace. He emits a prolonged and deep sigh at the painting before casting his eyes back on me. "Today is my father's birthday. He would've been sixty-two today if he had lived. After next year, I will have seen more birthdays than he did. He never got to see me pass the many milestones of my youth, including receipt of my driver's licence. Yours is a similar story; your father never got to witness the milestones of your youth. I consider it something of a privilege to bear witness to such important moments in your life, just as I did with Dick. It is therefore only for that reason I will take you to get your licence." That's the long-ass way of saying 'yes'. Another victory for the second child. I can't help but grin at him.

"Fine with me."

The ride over to the DMV seems to take seconds. Bruce's driving style makes it quick; the man controls my Spyder like it's a freaking go-cart, virtually playing with it as he rounds tight bends and navigates tricky hills at full throttle. I'm not scared for a minute by any of it; he's barely gone above ninety during the whole trip, a speed I consider the bottom end of slow. And suddenly we're outside the building and ready to go in. The big guy's hair isn't even slightly windswept by the journey as he strides over to the front door; I do my best to salvage my crazy hair in the meantime.

I get some funny looks as I go to the counter, but the bulk of the attention goes to Bruce as he walks alongside me. He's probably never set foot in a place like this before in his whole life. Everyone responds to his presence like he's some kind of alien life form. A muted silence falls over the room. People are on their cells moments later, probably to tell their grandmas about seeing Bruce Wayne in the flesh, sycophants. I don't care about the big man upstaging me; I just want my licence, nothing else. When they hand it to me I feel like I'm finally moving forward with my life. We leave shortly after and Bruce positions himself in the passenger seat of my car for the ride home. I slot myself behind the wheel like I've done so many times before, but it feels like the first time again. I've got goose bumps all over.

"Jason? Are you okay?" The big guy asks me when I've been quiet too long for his tastes. I put my hands on the steering wheel before nodding.

"Yeah, I think I am."

Bruce says nothing on the ride back. He doesn't tell me where to put my hands, to watch my road position or informs me I'm going too fast or am in the wrong gear; he just watches me. And, for the first time, it doesn't feel like he's scrutinising me or grading my performance. Whenever I glance over in his direction, I can see this small smirk on his face, but it doesn't offer condescension or amusement like usual…

It almost looks like pride. And I get goose bumps again.

When we pull up in the driveway, right outside the front door, I kill the engine. Bruce isn't looking at me anymore. The big guy is gazing around the grounds and nodding to himself. I sit still and wait for him to say something. Then he gets out of the car without saying anything and keeping his back to me. I start to feel like maybe I've done something wrong to provoke this reaction, but can't figure out what I could've done so badly to deserve this behaviour. I get out the car too.

"Bruce? Is something wrong?" I ask genuinely concerned I've run a red light or pulled out too early at a junction or something and he's noticed. I'm already starting to retrace the journey back in minute detail, looking for the error, when I draw level with him at the front door. The big man turns to face me and looks unusually perplexed by something, the same expression he adopts when an investigation throws up a dead-end. But he's looking at _me_ with that expression, like I'm somehow confusing or illogical.

"Nothing is wrong, Jason. You are a very competent driver and I am impressed at your temperament on the road. I apologize if I made you anxious just now. You violated no traffic laws on the return journey; again I was impressed with your restraint. If there's nothing else, please excuse me. I have a meeting to attend to at Wayne Enterprises." He responds before briefly squeezing my shoulder, "I am very proud of you…Son." He turns and disappears inside without another word, leaving me standing there completely numb. He called me son. He actually called me son. I don't fucking believe _he_ actually called _me_ his son. Holy shit I feel good right now, stunned into silence, but really, really good. I get back in Little Brat and swing it round to the garage.

It's close to six in the afternoon. I've spent most of the day sweating my ass off in the workshop, cosmetically altering Brat to my own specifications to pick up Maddie tomorrow night. So far, I've managed the radio fit, windscreen, tyres and am applying the third coat of paint. My ribs are aching worse than this morning and my whole body has been telling me it doesn't want to play for the last two hours, but I make it push on. After a while though, I have to sit down and take a seat on the floor with my back slumped against the wall behind me. I hear the Rolls pull up in the garage next door a few minutes later. I don't move at all. The car is now cherry red and needs a decent coat of wax, but I'd say it's almost finished. A whole day to do this? Get real Bruce, try less than six hours. I really wish he could've helped me on this one, but I'm not mad at him for not staying home. I can't believe he called me son. I know I keep saying it, but wow. One word is all it takes to completely change your perspective on something you thought was set in stone. I'm still getting goose bumps from thinking about it. After about thirty minutes of resting, I manage to haul my ass back up and go for the wax in the corner.

"He's looking good." I hear Bruce say from the doorway. I nod my head whilst unscrewing the lid on the tin. Yeah, my car is a guy, not a girl. As if anything this powerful or fast could ever be called 'she'. Bruce can call the bat mobile 'she' if he likes, but we both know deep down that it's a guy too. Still, it's nice that he knows that about Brat.

"I just need to put a few coats of wax on and he'll be ready to hit the town." I say positioning myself in front of the bonnet with an applicator pad and the newly opened Turtle Wax.

"Well, you can do that later. Alfred will start serving dinner in thirty minutes and has informed me you haven't eaten all day." I catch the big man move from the doorway in my peripheral vision as I begin to apply the wax.

"I'll just have it later. I want to get this done as soon as possible."

"I'm certain Miss Prince isn't skipping meals in her build-up to this date." I hear him say from behind me. He must be a foot away. I smirk.

"She's probably not going crazy over everything being perfect either, but then she doesn't need to impress me."

"But you need to impress her, I take it?"

"Uh, as a billionaire's ward I think that's a given. She'll be expecting something big."

"It is not possible that you've already impressed her, Jason?"

"I don't see how. I met her in a train station after she thought I was a rent boy or beggar, then had a coffee with her in some greasy-spoon joint nearby, looking like a victim of domestic abuse and a fashion victim."

"And despite all that, she still agreed to a date with you. Does that not say something about her liking you for your personality rather than your wealth?"

I stop buffing the bodywork and consider. I kind of forgot that little point. I really did impress her using just conversation. She liked me enough to give me a shot on a date, even though I looked like shit and moved like an arthritic coffin dodger for most of the night. I suppose I really don't have to rely on Bruce's money to sustain a girl's interest. I feel stupid now for obsessing over it all so much. I wanted everything to be perfect for this date, but it wouldn't really matter if it ran with the efficiency of a Swiss watch because Maddie would still only like me if I were myself and not pretending to be better than I am. Jeez, what a bad time for an epiphany. I just worked myself into the ground for the better part of two days only to realise it's all largely pointless window dressing. I laugh briefly at my own stupidity before nodding.

"Yeah, it does." I say turning to face him. Bruce is still wearing the Armani suit but has swapped his blue tie for a more muted green and his Rolex for a leather-strapped variant. I don't know why he bothered; the other tie and watch were fine for work. "I guess I can take a break for dinner." Bruce nods in satisfaction at my choice.

"Good man. So, wash-up and I'll see you around six-thirty."

I don't normally like dining with Bruce. The air is dry and devoid of real or interesting conversation and most of the meal passes in awkward silence. This time is actually okay. After Al supplies some more painkillers and Bruce asks me how I've planned tomorrow night, dinner starts to fly by. When dessert arrives, I barely notice because I'm so engrossed in the conversation. This is a good thing and I'm happy he persuaded me to join him. Once it's over, Bruce offers to help me wax the car for an hour before heading out on patrol. Again I'm happy he wants to get involved in it all; it really does make a difference to the normal script between us. We manage two coats between us and I've decided that it doesn't really need another one. It took a long time to decide, enough for Bruce to swan off to the cave and tool up, but I took the big guy's advice about being too finicky and left it alone. After leaving Brat in the garage and closing up the workshop, I took a shower and went straight to bed to try and recover as much as possible for tomorrow's big set piece. I don't dream of anything but the Rainbow Vale and happy endings in old movies.

I wake up without any prompting and feel refreshed from the eleven or so hours I spent comatose. I shower to wake myself up properly and then study my reflection for a few minutes. The swelling on my cheek is virtually gone, my split lip is almost healed and my shiner's faded to almost nothing. It's impressive for three days and I have to smile about my good luck. Even though my fitness levels mean bruises never last longer than a week, it's still a good result. If I combed my hair, I could probably go on a date right now, in just my underwear. Not going to happen, but pretty satisfying to know I could if I was in the mood. I wonder how Maddie would feel about that…She'd think it was funny I'll bet. I manage to get dressed without my ribs flaring up and head downstairs.

I find Al in the middle of polishing the silverware ornaments in the lounge, meaning it's shortly after nine in the morning. The old man looks up at me from this cleaning and smiles genially. "Good morning, Master Jason. How are you feeling today, young man?"

"I feel okay for the most part, Al. Bruce gone to the office I take it?" I say taking a few steps towards him. Al sighs lethargically.

"Where else? He wanted me to pass on his hopes that your date with Miss Prince goes smoothly this evening."

"I see. Did he really say that or are you just covering for him?"

"Oh no, Sir, he was very insistent I pass on his sentiments before leaving this morning. It would appear Master Bruce is hoping this meeting tonight will be the start of a wonderful relationship for you and Miss Prince. I must admit I feel the same way." I have to roll my eyes, just because I'm a teenager and these sort of overbearing statements naturally disgust me.

"Sounds like he wants to marry us off."

"Not quite yet, perhaps by your third date he will expect an invitation to the engagement party." I smirk at him.

"So will _I_, Al. Hopefully she'll invite me."

"Well, one can hope such charity can be found I suppose."

"Corny jokes aside, Al, do you think I can get to a third date with her?"

"You seem to keep forgetting that I have never met the lady in question and therefore have no reason to vote either one way or other. I will say that from what you have told myself and Master Bruce that she is very friendly and you are very taken with her. I expect you will try your best to secure another date with her in the future and that is all you can really do."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: These are the final stages of Respite. Following this, there will be two further updates. After that, Respite is concluded. I'd apologize for the delay if any were warranted. Afghanistan was a little more important than updating this. Enjoy the date.**

**Happy Endings 2**

I get to Maddie's house early, dressed in an ensemble that tries to put casual and formal together in the same space without really being either. It's smart jeans, a white cotton polo shirt that might be Ralph Lauren or something similar and brown loafers. I thought long and hard about what to wear, got Al's perspective on my choices and then just decided to go for it. It feels constricting and kind of showy, but like Bruce said, I've got my foot in the door already: the only thing Maddie is expecting me to wear is clothes. I got that right at the very least. I knock on the door and find myself confronted with a tall, weathered man with a thick moustache I kind of recognize from the old neighbourhood and who I assume is Maddie's father. He regards me with a little surprise.

"My god, it is Willis Todd's boy, isn't it? Jason right?" He asks sticking his big paw out for a handshake. I nod and shake his hand. This is pretty awkward.

"Sorry, I don't really remember you."

"That's not a problem, son: I hardly recognise you. You used to be a lot shorter and skinny than you are now, pretty sure you had a different hair colour too. I used to see you goofing around in the apartment building a lot when I finished my shift. You looked like you were left on your own quite a bit back then. But, you know I shouldn't say anything about that now: none of my business. Please come in, come in." The guy says ushering me inside and closing the door. "I'm Harry by the way, Harry Prince." He informs me as I'm led into the living room. Maddie's mom does an eerily similar routine to her husband in feigning surprise, checking who my daddy is and then introducing herself as Laura Prince.

"Where's Maddie?" I ask as I'm strongly invited to take a seat in front of them.

"She's still getting ready. You don't mind talking to us until she comes down, do you?" Laura says, obviously trying to strong-arm me into small talk. I don't like being forced into a corner, even if I want to get in good with her folks. I know an interrogation when I see one. My mouth starts before I can stop it.

"Actually, you're kind of creeping me out with this thinly veiled attempt to get my balls in a vice before I even get to first base with your daughter." I say like I'm somewhere else with someone else instead of in their house as their guest. I don't say anything else even though I'm dying to apologize for a typical example of Jason Todd charm. They both look at me in perfect silence for almost a minute before Harry nods at me in something that just might be understanding.

"Maddie said you were smart. She forgot to mention you had a quick tongue too. Did you literally just think of that or did you prepare a few lines beforehand?" Okay, they're just like Maddie. This is good. I can run with this. I shrug.

"Sometimes my mouth just goes on without me."

"Hey, we don't want her going out with a kiss-ass, Jason, but we hadn't even started the awkward questions before you cut us off. At least let my wife get a couple down before you flare up again." Harry says with a grin that immediately helps put me at ease. I'm still nervous as hell though as I turn my attentions to Laura and offer her a sporting smile.

"Yeah, sure thing. Go ahead Mrs. Prince."

"How many girls have you slept with?" She says straight away. I don't know whether she's thinking because of my perceived wealth and good looks that it's a lot. Regardless, it's time to dispel myths about me being any kind of Casanova.

"One." I fire back.

"Who…"

"She broke up with me." Score one in beating her to the punch.

"Where…"

"Ice-rink, followed by a meal at one of the restaurants downtown. Back by eleven." Two-nil and counting. She looks at her husband after the shutout. Harry smirks at me.

"This isn't your first parental beat-down, is it boy?"

"I've had my share. Bruce makes sure I'm prepared for flak. I smoke too, just so you know. Maybe five a day if I'm stressed." I say with total openness to make sure we all get off on the right foot. Still, I can guess where my vice is going to steer the conversation now.

"So how many have you had today?" Laura asks.

"Twelve. Can you smell it?" I say briefly smelling my shirt. I don't know for sure but I think I've won them over by being myself. That's got to be a first. I like these people, really like them.

"No but I think we're starting to see why Maddie likes you so much. Do you never feel like lying, Jason?"

"I've got nothing to hide and I pretty much have no shame either."

I spend the next ten minutes fielding questions about my home life, my hobbies and my driving ability. I tell them I'm home-schooled by Al, that I like MMA and boxing and that I drive better than any other teenager on the planet. I can't really get away with my last remark, but thankfully before they can test me on the Highway Code, Maddie rescues me from the inquisition. She's wearing jeans, pumps, a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and a leather jacket and looks so hot I struggle to remember how to speak. It lasts about two seconds, which is a lifetime for a guy as mouthy as me. When I do, I forget to convert my compliment into anything tasteful.

"You look like a model I had a dream about the other night…" I begin before her widening eyes tell me to trail off.

"Let's go before you horrify my parents anymore, Mr. Billionaire, huh?" She says to save my ass again. I'm on my feet in a flash and we're out the door a less than a minute later. She holds my hand as we walk to my car. "What did you say to them? Not to sound like a skank, but I've brought a few guys back before and they've never looked as shocked as I saw them just now." She tells me with an amused grin. I return the smile and go straight into my usual material for her.

"I should've told you before, but I'm addicted to flashing. Having an audience compelled me to drop my pants." She strokes her chin and pretends to consider what I've said carefully. She shakes her head.

"That wouldn't be enough for my parents. Is it a funny shape or something?" She asks with the same kind of tactless grace I've made my trademark. She'll like this response though…

"Oddly enough it looks just like Abe Lincoln standing on his head." She stifles a giggle and nods in understanding.

"You were just yourself, weren't you? A guy like you would definitely shock them."

"Why? Are they not used to real people or something?" I say opening the passenger door for her. She shakes her head.

"No, you're just unique is all. Unique scares the crap of them."

We get to the ice-rink without any melodrama, collect our skates and hit the ice less than half-an-hour after leaving her house. She's good, I'll give her that. Not only can she do the basics required to stay upright, but also amazingly skim around with total control. Being a natural athlete, I can skate to a decent standard as well, but she looks more comfortable with her surroundings than me. I don't think I even want to do this. Why did I let Bruce talk me into going ice-skating like ten-year-olds do? I probably look like a dick as well, wearing this stupid shit. Fuck. Total disaster already and I haven't even started. It takes her all of six minutes to notice I'm not quite fully committed to the activity I suggested we do for the date I wanted to have. She takes hold of my hand and steers me into a secluded corner of the rink.

"This isn't your kind of thing, is it?" Maddie says with a sympathetic smile. I shrug my shoulders.

"I'm sorry. I know this is what twelve-year-olds tend to consider a highbrow location for a first date, but it's all I could think of. I'm not great with this stuff." I say honestly. She shrugs too.

"How about we take a tour of the old neighbourhood instead? It's only a couple of subway stops away from here." That sounds like something I'd actually enjoy, but I'm worried about straying away from the conventional date I planned.

"What about dinner?"

"Is that your chance to show-off those deep pockets of yours, Mr. Billionaire?" She inquires whilst patting my jean pockets down. I give her a lop-sided grin.

"I was kind of hoping it would be."

"Restaurants are nice, but I don't think you like them much either. Am I right? Wouldn't you prefer a burger and fries from Eddie's?" Oh yeah, she remembers that cholesterol-riddled joint deep in the pits of Gotham too. My old man used to take me there as a treat. When my mom was croaking her last, their Burger Deluxe Meal was my favourite thing to drown my sorrows with. I'd love to go there, definitely, but they operate a strict no knives or forks policy for their slop.

"Yeah, but I eat like a pig." She scoffs at what she must think is a dumb excuse.

"And I'm such a lady?"

"I'd need to change out of this crap to make sure we don't end up in ER at the end of the night." I'd definitely get mugged in the old neighbourhood dressed like this. She pulls on my collar with a nod of agreement at my appraisal of the situation.

"I bet you've got something more suitable in that car of yours."

"Like a cape and tights?" I say to make her roll her eyes.

"You've definitely got a good body, but you're not quite Don Juan yet. I was thinking better jeans and an uglier T-shirt." This is turning into my kind of night. I'm with a girl who doesn't give a shit about frills of any kind and would even let a bad wardrobe slide. I got lucky, no doubt about that. I nod.

"I got so many ugly T-shirts I could be a poster boy for the Salvation Army."

"I thought you were."

"Funny, really droll."

I change into loose jeans, a lime-green T-shirt advertising Star City, black sneakers and my street urchin coat after fetching them from the trunk of Brat in the parking lot. I'm not crazy about leaving my car here to go on a subway train, but Maddie convinces me it's the best thing to do. I suppose if someone does jack it, it'll be a cinch for Bruce and me to track them down. So I follow her lead and we catch the subway car to the Narrows.

We get off at the stop just outside one of my favourite hustling grounds, the Nine-Ball Limit pool hall, and walk hand-in-hand down the street towards Eddie's. It's still early so there's hardly anybody about, but give it another hour or two and the place will be crawling with lowlifes and degenerates going to gin joints and gambling dens by the dozen. But this was a good idea and I'm really happy Maddie suggested it. It feels natural doing this instead of feeling forced like it was before with the ice-rink and the rich guy clothes. I didn't do this because I thought she'd expect more of me, being the ward of a billionaire, but I guess I really don't know girls that well. Her hand feels warm and comforting in mine and it makes me relax entirely.

From here, it's about half-a-mile to the place and gives us a chance to get all nostalgic about the past. During the journey, we point out the various landmarks of our shared childhood growing up in this area. We talk about the hot summers, the kids we used to know at elementary school and in the apartment building and how many days went by on average before we saw some kind of crime being committed. We work it out at roughly three-and-a-half days during the summer and maybe as long as five days in winter. She tells me a little about what I missed during middle school with the kids I might have remembered, but mainly she keeps it to events we both know well. We talk about the hit-and-run we saw when we were eight for the last ten minutes of the trip until we reach Eddie's.

Once we're there, I re-enact some of my lowest moments in buying another Burger Deluxe Meal, the first thing I ate after my mom died, my dad got killed and after being taken advantage of by my first pervert. She gets a Triple-Stack Chilli Cheeseburger Meal, a foodstuff that is one slice of cheese short of a heart attack, and makes me cough up a whole ten bucks to pay for it. We don't eat inside the place and instead take our romantic dinner to what's left of the outer wall of our former apartment block, which is now nothing but a mountain of broken bricks and mortar looming over tall grass that has managed to grow through the cracks in the pavement. In a weird way, I find it kind of pretty in the fading light.

"So, is our date living up to your expectations?" I ask her as I'm halfway through devouring my burger: she's already polished hers off and is picking up a generous fistful of fries when replying.

"This is probably the best first date I've ever been on." She says without any kind of sarcasm. I literally can't believe she's being serious.

"Are you fucking with me?"

"Not even a little. All the other guys I've taken a chance on would never have the stones to come down here. And you know, they're all from the other side of Gotham: they've never even seen the Narrows or Crime Alley except on TV. They don't understand what it's like to grow up here…or why that makes coming here so special. But you do. Other people wouldn't think of sitting out here, eating this slop, as romantic but I do. And I can by the way you're looking at that hill of building debris that you think it's beautiful too." She says with a smile that tells me we're more alike than I ever thought possible. I've never met anyone quite like her and I think I'd be hard-pressed to find a girl even remotely close to her character and temperament. I smile back and nod.

"I get it. Even though some of my worst memories are on these street corners and even though this place is depressing as hell, this place is home. It just feels like home." She hooks an arm around mine and rests her head against my shoulder. I don't think I've ever felt so close to another human being as I am now. When she speaks, I'm almost convinced she feels the same way about me.

"And that's why I wanted to come here with you: because you appreciate it too. You get it." She emits a sigh before adding, "I wish you could've stayed back when we were growing up. We could've done this all the time." Yeah, I know I would've liked that a hell of a lot, but it was never an option. It was either foster care or the streets. I'd take the jungle any day.

"I couldn't stay. I had to leave before they made me." I tell her to earn a rub on my arm in support. That's different.

"I'm sorry about your folks. You must've been really lonely after your dad."

"It was tough, but nothing new to anybody who's been there before." I say. It's old news now, everything is. Right here and now it's completely irrelevant.

"No regrets?" She asks. I shake my head.

"No point. It's done now. No point thinking about it anymore."

"You're as tough as they come, aren't you Mr. Billionaire?" She says now stroking up and down the length of my arm. I smirk.

"No tougher than you, Ms. Prince."

"That's sweet, but I think you're a little bit tougher than me."

"Nothing you can't handle though, right?" I check. She lifts her head to offer me a smirk of her own.

"I've chewed up tougher gobstoppers than you, big guy." I lean down until our lips are less than an inch apart. She looks at me expectantly. This is it, Jay. This is where you complicate things to the furthest point you can go. Nervous? I smile at her and feel entirely calm.

"That's good to know." I say before kissing her.

We get back to the parking lot after twenty minutes of making out and another five minutes on the subway car. It's just after ten and my car is the only one left. Thankfully, it's not up on bricks and looks entirely intact. I take a quick glance around the area and find we're completely alone, no nasty surprises waiting. That's got to qualify as the second biggest miracle tonight. The first is obviously that I actually have a girlfriend. Jason Todd has another girlfriend. I literally struggle to understand how or why despite being there every step of the way. Under a blanket of banter about how my car is compensation for my short comings and Maddie pushing the issue for all its worth, I drive her back home.

"Do you want me to walk you to your door?" I ask once we're outside. She scoffs.

"What? Like I can't find it or something?" I grin and roll my eyes. She's off again.

"Isn't that what guys are supposed to do?"

"Like you said, this isn't the 1950s anymore. How about you tuck me in and read me a bedtime story too while you're treating me like a delicate little flower?" She offers sticking her face close to mine. I narrow my eyes.

"If you want to compare yourself to any kind of plant, go with something credible, like a thistle or a rose with the biggest fucking thorns on the planet." She pouts and acts like she's hurt by my barb.

"Does that mean you don't want a kiss goodnight?"

"Do I have to steal it?" I ask. She grins.

"Not this time, Mr. Billionaire." She says kissing me on the lips before getting out the car. "You know the drill, right? Wait three days and then call me: that way you don't look too needy." I wave appreciatively at her as she walks backwards towards her front door.

"Thanks for the tip, Ms. Princess." She gives me the finger, smiles and then turns her back on me. Yep, that's my girlfriend alright. I watch her open the door and go inside. Then I drive off into the night.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Even if I don't publish anything at all in months, somehow my stories still get more than 1,000 hits between them. Remarkable. Here's the penultimate chapter when things are going well…Enjoy.**

**The Other Me**

I wake up after my date with Maddie sometime the next morning. I wake up genuinely thinking it was a dream for at least five minutes before realising it actually happened. I actually did it. I took a risk and it paid off…big time. I have a girlfriend. I have another girlfriend. I never thought I'd get to say that again. There's a knock at my door and then it opens. Bruce walks in clad in a familiar sweater and slacks combo of black and slate. He looks surprised I'm wide awake instead of still comatose, but composes himself enough to show me he brought a full-English fry-up, something I haven't been allowed to eat for almost two years because of the calorie and sugar-spike it jumps on you. I prop myself up on one elbow and look at him in surprise myself.

"Good morning, Jason." He says crossing the room whilst sidestepping last night's clothes that are strewn over half the floor. "I thought you might enjoy breakfast in bed."

"And I deserve this treatment from you, why?" I say sitting up when he comes within two feet of me. He places the breakfast tray over my lap and provides me with a knife and fork. He gifts me a rare smile before answering.

"I believe a celebration is in order. Alfred eluded to me that your date with Ms Prince proved to be…very fruitful." I eye him with suspicion.

"I never said anything to Al last night. I saw him for like five seconds on my way up the stairs." I inform him with a frown I hope indicates how close I am to thinking he's been spying on me. I can imagine him doing it too. The big guy is unfazed by my subtle accusations.

"Alfred recognises the body language of a successful encounter. He saw all the tell-tale signs last night. I hope you're not about to tell me our celebrations are premature?" He inquires as my peripheral vision spots his hand slowly manoeuvring in for the rim of the plate. I smack it away.

"No, I'm not." I tell him rolling my eyes. He looks at me expectantly and I know he wants me to confirm their suspicions on what happened last night with a very specific string of words. I sigh lethargically and nod. "Yes, Bruce: I have a girlfriend." I see his eyes light up without him trying to hide it and feel oddly proud to evoke such a reaction in a man almost made entirely of stone. He nods in return.

"I'm very glad to hear that. Is there a chance of more conversation or should I leave you to your breakfast?" He asks with more than a little hope I'll share one of my better moments with him. I shrug.

"It would only bore you, Bruce. I'm not much of a storyteller."

"I think I'd like to hear it anyway if you'll indulge me." He responds. I smirk at him before shaking my head.

"Is my love life really that interesting to you? You've never gotten down to brass tacks about your string of supermodels and starlets."

"That's different though."

"Oh? And why's that? Because they're out of my league?" I say lightly teasing him. His reply is a complete killer though.

"Because I never loved any of them." There's a palpable tension in the air afterwards that complements the silence between us. He sits down on the edge of the bed and I know how things are about to go next. He prompts me. "So?"

I eat and talk and talk and eat, occasionally spilling crumbs and other debris out the corners of my mouth as I do so. I won't lie: I do gloss over certain aspects. I don't tell him about how awkward the conversation between her parents and me became or how ridiculously nervous I was at the ice-rink, but I supply him with most of the details. No descriptions of kissing though, never with this guy. His facial expression doesn't go beyond that of a small, knowing smile, but his eyes flicker enough for me to gather I'm engaging him on a level deeper than usual. Since I can't weave a coherent narrative to save my life as Al will attest to, having Bruce's undivided attention while I speak utter crap feels kind of powerful in a weird way. I finish breakfast and my story at roughly the same time, about seven or eight minutes after starting, and wait for his response.

"It sounds like you were yourself and that it was enough for her. That's a rare feat in today's society, especially in my dating experience. I'm pleased you found someone you can relax around." Bruce says with the utmost sincerity and understanding. It's starting to reek of sap in here, like one of those coming-of-age feel-good stories you see on TV and sentimental lifetime movies, one where the father and son have one of those 'special moments' that doesn't involve the dad insisting they 'play doctor again'. "Jason? Is everything alright?" Bruce asks me when I realise I've been staring blankly at him for almost two minutes. I'm trying to decide whether I'm comfortable with this kind of scene or not, especially if the big guy is actually playing the parent role with more than a passing effort. He's not as hammy at it as I thought. I nod.

"I'm fine. I just…my teenage years have sucked, all of them have really sucked. It seemed like…every year, things were going to get so much worse. Turning sixteen and realising you're still the same kid you were at twelve only bigger and uglier with more baggage was not…it wasn't what I wanted to see when I looked in the mirror, you know? But, Maddie makes me feel like I am different now. Being with her makes me realise I'm not still in that subway bathroom, that I'm not always angry. And that…being Jason Todd…isn't the end of the world. It's not a deal-breaker anymore. But, more than anything it shows that…" I pause to look from my hands, which are attempting not to ball themselves into fists, to Bruce's face. I don't know where this is coming from or why I've decided to tell him, but I can't stop it rolling now: as interested as he looked during my story, he is so engrossed in what I'm currently saying that he's leant as far forward as he can go without lying on his stomach. He wants me to finish my thought. I shrug. "It shows that I'm not broken."

Bruce swallows hard before leaning back to his upright position. His eyes never leave mine but I know that they aren't concerned with looking through me but at me. After a lingering silence, one in which the big man doesn't seem to breathe at all, he finally blinks and then nods. "I know the feeling. Before Robin existed, when there was only me and darkness, I thought being Bruce Wayne was a deal-breaker as well. But it turns out there's more to me than being an orphan too." I know he gets it. His eyes tell me he understands my pain. I suppose he had to have been sixteen once too. He had to be lost as well otherwise he wouldn't have given me a home. I nod at him.

"It's a good feeling right? Makes you feel like you're actually worth something." I say with a smile. He smiles back.

"Yes it does. I'm just sorry you had to wait this long to find it."

"It was always going to take a miracle for me to feel like this. Now I need to keep it going. But…" I say shrugging my shoulders, "I'm done sharing for today. So, if you'd take off so I can grab a shower and get dressed, I'd really appreciate it." I say with just enough sarcasm to make him understand I'm not being malicious. Fortunately, the big guy can read me well enough when I'm like this and nods before getting to his feet and relieving me of the breakfast tray.

"We'll speak later. Enjoy your day, Jason." He turns to leave and almost makes it out the door before I collar him.

"Hey Bruce?"

"Yes, Jason?"

"Thanks for giving a shit this time." I say before I can rephrase it in a more eloquent way. He just smirks and nods.

"We'll speak later. Much later."

The next three months are a lesson in patience, but not from me. Maddie must be wondering how I still haven't let my hands wander after more than ten more dates, but she doesn't say anything to make me feel like a total bitch. But I can see she's getting a little frustrated with my lack of adventurous spirit when we're making out. After yet another date that ends in me and her making out in my car, but me not even fingering the buttons on the low-cut blouse she's sporting to tempt me, Maddie makes her point by grabbing a handful of my crotch through my jeans and feigning shock.

"So you're really not a eunuch. Who would've guessed?" She says in a tone that's only half-joking. She loosens her grip on my junk but doesn't give up the ghost entirely. I sigh.

"I'm pissing you off, aren't I?"

"Yeah, you're starting to. I'm not asking you to go all porn star on me, but I would like to at least feel like you're after a little more than my tongue. What are you afraid of?" She asks, starting off a little antsy before softening at the end. I'm soft all the way through. I take her hand off my crotch and shrug.

"I kind of gloss over certain things when we reminisce about the Narrows…and when I talk about…my sexual history…as it were." I say, sounding more like I'm hiding a rap sheet as a sexual predator than a past as a rent boy. Her expression tells me she's getting that impression too. I shake my head. "No, it's not what you're thinking. I let men fuck me for money, food or shelter when I was twelve going on thirteen. It's nothing bad." Her face goes blank at that confession. Everything else goes quiet. And now I have to wait for her to speak first. If the first thing out of her mouth isn't vomit, I still have a shot.

"How many guys…solicited you, I think is the best way of putting it?" She says with more awkwardness than I've ever heard. She's really not confident at all in responding to this elephant in the room. It doesn't help that I simply can't help myself and try to make light of it all without even thinking.

"Seven. Seven guys have been through me, I think is the best way of putting it?" I fire back with a smile. She isn't smiling at my imitation of her so I drop it and sigh.

"Look, I…I should have told you earlier, but I didn't want you dating me because I was a charity case and you felt sorry for me. I wanted you to like me without any black labels souring the judgement. Have I just fucked everything up here? I can't tell." Maddie shrugs his shoulders.

"I don't know what to make of that, if I'm honest, Jay." She scrutinises my face and then weirdly feels up my torso underneath my shirt. I feel her fingers trace around the individual muscles in my six-pack and then shake her head, presumably at the absurdity of it all. "How are you not a fucked up drug-addict or raging alcoholic right now?"

"I'm not totally sure, but I think Bruce pulling me off the street before I could get to the off-licence probably has something to do with it." I say to earn her disapproval again. She slips her hand off my stomach and uses it to brush my hair instead. She looks concerned and hot at the same time, something I think is really impressive on a woman at any age.

"Shit, Jay, I feel like such a bitch right now. I'm surprised you've even managed to have a girlfriend after something like that."

"Okay, that hurts a lot and I'm not some broke-down wino that needs pity. Okay? I got over it because I had to if I wanted to have a normal life. I don't regret doing anything because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have gotten here with you. If it'll get us off the slippery slope this is thundering down, I'd be more than willing to squeeze your rack or pat your ass. Both are excellent choices." She smirks at that one.

"You've got real guts to tell me straight like this, Jay. I know I couldn't do the same if things were the other way round."

"Sure you could, Ms. Prince: you're from the Narrows after all. I bet you would've had the balls to tell me several dates ago." I offer only for her to shake her head and laugh.

"You're not a pussy, Mr. Billionaire. I get that now. Before this, I thought you might've been gay and just didn't have the courage to admit it to yourself, so a little perspective is good. Honestly, somehow you're kind of hotter now I know you've gotten up after the ultimate beat down and won the big fight." I appreciate the boxing analogy as much as any other violent superhero, but I have to clue her in to the spoiler. I smile at her and sigh.

"I haven't won, not yet."

"Oh, but you have, big guy. Trust me." She says shifting into my lap and clasping her hands behind my neck, "Everyone else can already see it. The one who can't is you. And that's okay because you're going to see it. Jay, you let me in. I know that wasn't easy, but you managed it. And now it's three months later and you still haven't kicked me out yet. That must be an even bigger step for you, but you've done it as well. All you need to do is take it a step further." Maddie's encouraging me to come and play. I want to, but my doubts are jerking me back from the edge. I tell her straight.

"I don't want to hurt you, Maddie. I just…"

"You think you're the only one worrying about that? Trust me, I'm just as shit-scared of hurting you as you are of hurting me. And that was before you dropped the bombshell on me just now so you can imagine how much my stress levels have shot through the roof. I'm still willing to try though. Know why?" She says to cut off my rhetoric bullshit and make me realise my knowledge of the female psyche is equivalent to a two-year-old's grasp of quantum physics. I revert to form and give her the funny answer.

"You're desperate?" She rolls her eyes but keeps smiling regardless of my bad taste.

"Not with my looks. It's because you're special, Jay. And before you ruin it with more sarcasm, I know that's corny, but there isn't a better way of putting it without sounding worse. I still want you. I still love you. So let's move forward together. We're both a little screwed up but we can do this if we both try. Okay?" I don't know I thought I was the only one in this relationship who had a chip. I don't know why I keep telling Bruce and Al that I feel good when deep down I still feel low. I don't know why I strung Maddie along with so many evasions before just coming clean with her on my past. I guess I'm still afraid of being labelled as broken or a charity case, no matter how far I climb from what's come before. I got lucky with Maddie. I got so fucking lucky with her it's not even funny. Just like I did in the café when we first met and just like I did on our trip to the old neighbourhood and every date after, I let myself go. I always tell myself I won't or I can't, but I look into her eyes and then I will and I can. I kiss her.

"I love you, Ms. Princess." I tell her. She smiles and leans forward.

"I love you too, Mr. Billionaire." She kisses me and whispers softly in my ear. "Let's go somewhere a little more private."

I drop her off at around eleven and head back to the manor. I walk in the front door and head straight down into the cave. I'm hanging around for about twenty minutes when Bruce returns in the car. I watch him get out and begin to turn the car around. Then he looks up from the vehicle park and sees me stood near the command centre. For the first time since I've known him, the big man stops turning the car around and begins to head for my location. For the first time ever, he ignores protocol on reorganisation after a patrol and gives his full attention to my presence in the cave. He already knows why I'm down here. He knows I wouldn't come see him now unless I had something really important to discuss with him. For once, everything else is not the priority. For maybe only the third or fourth time in our history I'M the priority for him.

When he gets on my level, he doesn't even bother to head for the armoury to drop off his ancillaries or change into civilian clothes. He just pulls back the cowl and gestures for me to take a seat. I oblige him. In the last few months, his dating advice and his counsel afterwards have just gotten better and better until I almost believed he could pass as a good friend. He still doesn't have that father tag, but it's close. He's really trying these days.

"Did you feel something this time?" He asks, not needing to ask if we had sex. He can probably tell by the stupid look on my face that we did. I nod.

"Yeah. I did."

"Was it enjoyable for you this time?" He asks knowingly. I have told him a lot over the last few months about how bad things were with Laura towards the end. Obviously he remembers all of it. But for once, he didn't judge me on my poor performance. He was just understanding. I guess he shares more in common with me on the romantic side that either of us thought. I smile at him.

"Actually, it was, yeah. I felt…happy about it all." He smiles and nods before pausing to consider his next question. When he poses it I'm surprised, but glad we're at that kind of level with one another after so many dark days.

"Did she rate you afterwards?" He asks and I give him a sheepish grin. Thank God she didn't rate my performance. I'd probably never dare have sex again if she'd scored me on a points system.

"No and I'm glad, but I think I did okay."

"Protection?" He inquires without any hesitation. Almost a parent, almost. I nod immediately.

"Yep. I guess I should put another one in my wallet now."

"Perhaps several." He suggests with a sly smile I've never seen on his face before. Oddly, it looks good on him. I roll my eyes.

"I don't think I'm quite that prolific yet, big guy."

"I see. Did she…warm you to the idea?" He says in such a way as not to step on my manliness by saying outright that she got me in the sack instead of the other way around. I don't go for false bravado and say I masterminded the whole encounter. I tell him the truth.

"She's got a silver tongue shinier than Al's. I was glad she did. I would've hated myself if nothing had happened…again." I admit. Bruce smirks at me and nods in understanding. I don't take offence to him doing that anymore. He actually does understand this dilemma we always face with dual-lives when it comes to relationships. He knows how big a risk I've taken by tangling myself in a situation that I can't simply cut loose from at a moment's notice. He's done it several times before and mostly ended up on the wrong side of the fence when it all comes crashing down. He really doesn't want me to get hurt. It means a lot.

"When will you see her again?"

"The day after tomorrow. We're going for dinner downtown. She said she'd like it if you were there." Maddie hasn't come back to the manor yet, or met Bruce. She asks after him a lot, wondering what's so wrong about him that I don't want them to meet. I keep telling her he's deformed, but she isn't buying that anymore. Her parents want to meet him too. I guess if I'm serious about all this, I have to let them meet the big man. I know he can be all charming and charismatic, so I'm not worried about them liking him. I'm worried about him liking them…and her.

His opinions recently have meant an awful lot to me. He's helped me organise the dates and make this whole relationship a lasting success. He's suggested places to go and activities to do and every time I've taken his advice, it's been fantastic. But he's making the suggestions on what I tell him about her. I know from the look in his eyes, he hasn't gone behind my back and researched her, like he usually would. He's been respectful and I just don't want that to end if he doesn't approve of her. I don't see why after living with me he could consider anybody else to be a bad influence on me, but you never know. He smiles at me.

"I would be happy to cow to her wishes, if you don't mind my presence that is. I don't want to make things uncomfortable between you."

"Trust me, I don't need you to do that on my behalf. I'm more than capable of alienating her on my own. I'll book a table for three then."

"Excellent. Well, I won't keep you any longer…" He says getting up from his seat, "I'm sure you'd like some sleep after tonight's…escapades." I laugh at his attempts at humour. They're really not too bad for him. I stand up.

"Thanks for making sure I'm okay." I tell him honestly. He nods and squeezes my shoulder. He is bordering on fatherly behaviour now and I'm okay with it.

"You've done very well so far. I hope it continues." He tells me in exactly the same genuine tone before his hand slips off my shoulder. I nod and give him a little wave.

"Night Bruce."

"Goodnight Jason."


End file.
